Derplock
by Autumnstar17
Summary: Scottie and Emily are transported to London by a "dimension-hopping TARDIS machine" laptop. Lost and alone with only two bags and three hundred quid, they run into some familiar faces... and promptly make fools of themselves. Co-written (cover art by Emily). OCs/non-Mary Sue self inserts, a boatload of stupid, and eventual Johnlock slash?
1. A Study in Derp

**EPISODE 1:**

**"A STUDY IN DERP"**

* * *

Scottie sat up with a gasp and immediately threw himself back down onto the pillow. He couldn't tell if his eyes were closed or not, it was so dark in his room, but he supposed it didn't matter either way. The blackness acted as a blindfold as effectively as his eyelids would've, and as long as his eyes were not burdened with the task of seeing, his mind was free to make shit up in place of that lost sense. He was sure he was staring up at his familiar blank ceiling, but he couldn't shake off the sight of writhing tentacles and a suit sleeve reaching out for him.

"Wonder if Slender Man wears Westwood," he said to the room.

Something shifted on his left. He could hear it moving.

Scottie waited about five seconds to make sure his heart wouldn't explode, which he knew was very naive of him because he had passed health science in high school, before he launched himself out of bed. He expected to meet a wall close on his right, because unreasonable curfews had long since forced him to memorize the layout of his own bedroom in the dark, and he remained under the delusion that that was where he still was. Instead, he tripped over a table and nearly killed himself.

Scottie flailed around a bit in surprise and somehow managed to keep from knocking anything over. The echoes of the racket he'd made dispersed, and the Thing shifted again, then went silent. Scottie searched the top of the table in the dark by smacking the stuff on it with his open palm until he found a small lamp and turned it on.

The lamp was a piece of shit, to be honest. Its dull glow barely lit up the outlines of objects not more than ten feet away, but it was enough for Scottie to see that he had no idea where he was. It looked like a cheap hotel room, with ugly wallpaper and half-heartedly matching furniture, and a second twin bed pushed against the opposite wall with something already in it.

When Scottie noticed that, he peed a little. He calmly assured himself that he was about to be disemboweled by a psycho kidnapper and dumped in a river somewhere, probably in pieces.

The teenager approached the lump curled up in the other bed and poked it, then dove back under his own covers. The lump grunted at him and didn't move. Scottie tried again. This time, the lump spoke.

"Hhhnngggghhh," it groaned. "Five m're min't's, mom..."

"Emily?" Scottie called. He got up and pulled the sheets back away from the lump's familiar face, just to be sure. "Emily!" he said, happily.

"G'way," the girl mumbled and rolled over. She snatched the covers back and shoved her head under her pillow.

Annoyed, Scottie jumped up onto the mattress with his friend and, bracing his foot against her lower back, kicked her into the small space between the bed and the wall. She went, with a yelp and a wild grab for his ankle, which he easily shook off.

Scottie went back and sat cross-legged on the edge of his own bed to put some distance between them in case she decided to throw something at him. Emily emerged from behind the mattress moments later, struggling to disentangle herself from her sheets that had somehow gotten twisted around her legs, and she squinted into the shadows.

"What the hell, man? Who... Who are you and what are you doing in my room?" she demanded. Emily turned to her left and screamed at the top of her lungs, "MOOOOOOOOM!"

Scottie belatedly realized that he was crouched and staring at her all creepy-like, with the lamp behind his head so that she couldn't see his face. Oops. He stood and made to turn on the lamp on her bedside table a couple of feet in front of him, but when he moved forward, Emily flinched and brandished a pillow at him.

"Don't make me kill you," she warned.

"With a pillow?" he asked.

"Especially with a pillow," Emily said, and raised the instrument of murder over her head.

Scottie ignored her and turned the lamp on anyway. He was promptly smacked so hard that he saw stars for a moment. Emily reared back with the pillow again and paused.

"Scottie?" The boy raised his hands to be level with his face in a please don't shoot me kind of way. "Scottie!" Emily squealed and vaulted over the bed. She threw her arms around him, spun in a circle until he was dizzy, and then shoved him back in a way that implied she expected him to keep his feet. Scottie plopped down on the edge of his mattress and tried not to throw up. "Are we actually talking to each other, face-to-face?" Emily asked, looking delirious with joy.

"It seems like it," Scottie said with a queasy smile. "That, or one of us is a very convincing hologram."

"Oh my gosh this is so awesome!" Emily was practically vibrating up and down. "I can't believe I'm finally meeting you in real life! Now I can actually tacklehug you instead of just typing it out and pressing 'send!'"

Scottie laughed and stood again when he felt stable enough. "I know, right? You look weird when you're not on the other end of a webcam." He glared suspiciously at the top of her head. "Also, taller..."

"Aaaw, thanks!" Emily said and hugged him again. This time, she kept an arm around his shoulders. "So what about the others?"

"You are taller than me," Scottie said, outraged. "How did this happen?"

"Are you hiding more of our internet friends somewhere?" Emily looked around and squatted to peek under both beds. "Soul? Ryn? Nat?"

"I was supposed to be the Sherlock in this relationship, how the hell are you taller than me?"

"Shelby? Blaise?" Emily walked over to a large cabinet not far away and pulled it open, as if expecting someone to be in there. "Oh, Scottie. Please tell me you brought Blaise with you. I just really really really wanna see her creep on someone in person."

"I am so short," Scottie mumbled in despair. He looked up at Emily, confused. "Wait, what? No, I... I didn't bring anyone with me. I'm not even sure how I got here."

Emily froze and turned to stare at him. "So... you mean you didn't drug me and take me from my home in the middle of the night to a shady hotel?"

"No," he said. "But now I feel like I should've thought of that first."

"Then... who did?" Emily asked. "And where the heck are we?"

"I was hoping you would know..."

They both sat back on their respective beds, facing each other. Emily rubbed her forehead. "The last thing I remember... You, me, and Shelby were staying up late watching Sherlock together, chatting..."

Scottie giggled. "Oh, yes. And freaking out about everything that happened." He affected a high-pitched valley girl voice. "Aaah oh my Goooood it's the purple shirt, aaah! Look look look, his buttons are about to pop off! Aaah!"

Emily hit him with her pillow again, but otherwise ignored him. "Then Shelby had to go to bed early," she said. "Somewhere around one. Right?"

"You say 'early' like it's completely unacceptable for anyone to fall asleep before then," Scottie said. "And due to time zones, it was much later for me, thank you very much."

He was ignored some more. "Oh, that's right!" Emily said, jumping up. "She had church or something in the morning, didn't she? And after she left, we watched Reichenbach again, and uh..." Emily squinted, struggling for words.

"Aaand that's when I fell asleep on my keyboard," Scottie said. He rubbed the greenish-purple bruise on his temple that was starting to sting, and Emily laughed at him.

"I was already in bed with my laptop," she admitted. "Guess I fell asleep, too."

Scottie hummed. "Weird."

"Yeah..." Emily turned and spotted a few bags piled up by the door of their room. "Hey, is that our stuff?" She ran off to investigate, while Scottie wandered towards the only window he could see. Heavy curtains were pulled closed over it, but a little bit of light managed to slip its way through the gaps. "Well, there's a suitcase here full of my clothes and bathroom things," Emily said as she dug around in a mess of her shirts. "And I think this duffle bag is yours."

"Um, Emily?" Scottie had pulled the curtains aside out of curiosity, and the glow of the early morning illuminated the room far better than both of their measly lamps could do combined. "I think you might wanna come see this."

"What is it?" Emily joined him at the window and gaped. "Oh, my."

Big Ben stared back at them from a distance, partially obscured by a wave a fog.

"This definitely isn't Tennessee."

"Man," Emily mumbled. "Isn't SoCal, either."

The two of them discussed this recent discovery at length as they inspected the rest of their room. The place itself was fairly standard, exactly what you might expect from an average hotel, but the real puzzle lay within their bags. Someone had left them about a week's worth of their favorite clothes, toiletries, personal electronic gadgets, and three hundred pounds (which Scottie claimed was worth about five hundred US dollars).

The duo found the attached bathroom and took turns getting dressed out of their pajamas, bickering about what to do the entire time. Eventually, it was decided that Emily would go interrogate the clerk at the front desk because Scottie was too shy to do it, and then they would leave and find some nice place to have breakfast and blow their money.

"But what happens after that?" Emily asked. "We'll still be stranded in England somewhere, miles from home."

"We can play it by ear," Scottie said, and shoved her out into the hallway. "Then it'll be even more impressive when we don't die!"

By the time Emily came back five minutes later, Scottie was hanging upside down off the edge of his bed with his laptop open and balanced on his stomach.

"We were right," Emily said. "The clerk confirmed it, we're in London, England. Gave me a weird look when I asked that. Apparently, we're paid up for one night, and seeing as it's already ten... we have to be out of here in two hours. What are you doing?"

"This isn't my laptop," Scottie said without looking up.

"Pardon?" Emily came to stand beside him. "Then whose is it?"

"I mean, it is a very convincing replica of my laptop," Scottie said as he sat up and turned the machine around for Emily to see. He rubbed his fingers over the strange symbols carved into the plastic beside the touch pad. "But I am relatively sure my laptop didn't used to have ancient curses placed upon it."

"What on Earth are you talking about?" Emily asked.

"Eh... nothing. Nevermind. It doesn't matter." Scottie turned his attention back to his computer and continued typing as if he'd never been interrupted. "It's just that one of the characters in this book I'm writing made her laptop into some kind of dimension-hopping TARDIS machine or... whatever. I haven't actually watched Doctor Who. Don't worry about it."

Emily sighed and fetched her own laptop from her suitcase. "Are you on the hotel's wireless internet connection?" she asked.

"Yeah," Scottie said. "Their password is the phone number for the front desk, which I found taped up beside the door. That's usually what hotels and restaurants do, so no one forgets it. And anyway, I've been talking to a couple of the guys on tinychat. Not many of them are still up. It's apparently somewhere in the three AM range back home."

"Have you told them anything about... y'know?" Emily asked.

"Yes. Shelby's mostly pissed that she didn't get to come, too." Scottie's lip twitched. "I told her it was her fault for going to bed so early."

"Sleep is for the weak," Emily agreed. She sat down on her own bed and opened her laptop. Thankfully, hers didn't have any crazy symbols scratched into it, or else she'd have to kill something. She quickly got online and went to their club's chatroom, where Scottie was unsuccessfully trying to explain their situation to a couple of their internet friends. To settle the argument, Emily got on her webcam and showed everyone Big Ben outside their window, and then she sat back down beside Scottie. "So, yeah. We're here," she said.

"Halp," Scottie said, and then he waved at the camera like a dork. "HI MOM! Look, I'm on TV!"

Willow and Nat immediately responded that they were very proud of him.

"Anyways. Back to business," he said and threw his arms in the air. "And Another Note Productions is still in existence. Yay!"

"Um. Yay!" Emily replied. "Why would it not be?"

"Dimension-hopping TARDIS machine, remember?" Scottie said. "It makes sense, I swear."

"Uh... what?"

"Okay, I lied." Scottie shrugged and nodded in the direction of Emily's cell phone lying on the bedside table. "I called my home phone number, and it's been disconnected. Hope you don't mind. Also, I tried emailing my dad, but his email address doesn't exist anymore, apparently. You, uh. You might wanna try calling someone yourself, just to see if your family is still alive and stuff."

They weren't. Even Julia, Emily's little sister who was also a part of their AAN group, was nowhere to be found. It seemed like all of her accounts on the websites they visited regularly had been deleted.

"So all of our responsibilities in America have just poofed," Scottie said. "No parents. No family. No friends. I bet if I emailed my English teacher, he'd never remember having me in class. I wonder if my doggies still exist."

"No baby sisters," Emily said and threw her phone down onto the bed. "I actually miss her now, the little twit. This is like a lonely, friendless wonderland."

"On the other hand," Scottie said, "I think it's the best vacation ever. No one around to bug us except for our rockin' online buddies! Hooray!"

There was an extended silence between the two teens and the chat room. Obviously, no one else was as excited about the idea as Scottie was.

"Hey. Let's go find a place to eat breakfast. Then we'll figure out how to survive in London with less than five hundred dollars between us."

Emily and Scottie said goodbye to everyone at AAN and ventured out of their hotel for the first time, walking in search of a "posh little cafe" that the clerk at the front desk had recommended to them. Scottie kept a firm grip on Emily's jacket sleeve for the entire trip and jumped every time another pedestrian came too close.

"Look," Emily said. "I know we've only known each other in person for about an hour, and I know it's like your 'thing' or whatever to be the awkward shy nerd, and I know we somehow crossed the Atlantic Ocean in our sleep last night, but... you're being exceptionally weird right now."

"My life sucks," Scottie said confidently.

"Um, okay."

"My family consists entirely of rich but otherwise stereotypically redneck assholes. I've spent most of my life in mansions in the middle of the woods surrounded by married cousins who isolate me from society and try to buy my love with roadkill steaks. I'm never allowed out of the house. I've only been to the mall without my mom once, and the longest I've been left at home alone for is three hours." Scottie narrowly avoided bumping into an older lady and ended up almost tripping Emily with the force of his overcorrection. "Cities and people make me nervous."

"Yes, I can see that," Emily said as she wrenched her jacket away from him.

"I assure you, none of my awkwardness has anything to do with it being my 'thing.'"

They could see the cafe now, not too far away. They concentrated on getting to the front door in silence.

"Well, I grew up in Southern California..."

"Fuck you, Emily."

The food was a bit overcooked, but otherwise wonderful. They practiced talking in "British speak" and giggled about their waiter's accent, and then they had to ask for change for a one hundred pound note (or rather, Emily did). The two of them paid and got back to the hotel just in time to gather their belongings and get kicked out. They (smartly) decided to wander around town at random and look for something to do, while Emily taught Scottie all there was to know about city life.

"...every single one of these cabs you see here can and will run you over and leave you for dead in the middle of the street," she said. "And when the cops finally scrape your mangled corpse off the asphalt, not one of these jaywalkers will admit to having seen anything. Not if it means wasting a second of their lunch breaks. Now, as for subways-"

"OH MY GOD LOOK IT'S A PIGEON!" Scottie screeched.

It wasn't a pigeon. It didn't even vaguely look like a pigeon, but in all fairness, Scottie had never really seen a pigeon before. The Bird That Was Not a Pigeon was pecking around a spilled box of french fries with its brethren, and they all seemed mildly unconcerned with Scottie running towards them flailing. They didn't even fly off until the teen almost trampled them in his excitement.

Scottie waved at them as they disappeared behind a building. "SEE YOU LATER, MR. PIGEON AND FRIENDS!"

Emily walked up behind him. "Aw, look. You scared them."

"With my intense, burning love for their adorableness, maybe."

"Most likely, yeah."

"Oh hey, look. That's a familiar sight, innit?" Scottie hefted his duffle bag over his shoulder and motioned towards a fair haired man in a sweater limping away from them with the help of a cane. "Best. Vacation. Ever. Free trip to London, and a sneak peek at Dr. Watson's backside. Now all we have to do is stalk a random stranger who looks like Sherlock, and we'll be-"

"Scottie!" Emily gasped and slapped at his upper arm, but she missed and caught his face. "Looklooklook!"

"Ow! What?"

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Scottie squinted in the direction Emily was pointing and then looked back at her, confused. "Scottie, where the hell are your glasses?" she demanded.

"Oh! Right," he said, smiling sheepishly. "I wear those, don't I?" Emily groaned and scrubbed her hands over her eyes. "I'm sorry, I forget sometimes!"

"I don't care, just shut up and put them on or you're going to miss it!"

Scottie dug his glasses out of his bag with a grumble and shoved them on to his face. "Okay, now what am I looking at?"

The blonde man Scottie had pointed out earlier was stopped at a crosswalk waiting for the light to change so he could get through without being squashed by the traffic. As the teens stared, the man sighed heavily, shifted his weight around, glanced at his watch, and then moved to lean against the nearby pole to relieve the stress on his leg. The man then glanced back over his shoulder as if worried that someone would protest his position, and Scottie got his first good look at the man's face.

Scottie knew that face. In fact, he'd likely spent more time than would be considered healthy attempting to memorize that face.

"No way," he said. "Does Martin Freeman live in London? He probably does. All British actors live in London, right?"

"But if that is Martin Freeman, why is he dressed up like John?" Emily asked. "And he's walking with the cane, too. That doesn't make sense."

"God, he's ten times cuter in real life, even if it is from behind at a distance. Or rather, especially from behind."

"Don't make me hit you again," Emily warned.

"Do you think they could be filming a new Sherlock episode in which John's limp comes back?" Scottie asked.

"But then where are the cameras and crew? And why would they be filming him acting shifty at a crosswalk? I guess he could be on his way to the set... But that doesn't explain the cane, then. Or why Martin Freeman isn't being swarmed by fangirls right now. He's famous enough for that, right? Scottie?" Emily glanced back at her friend only to find him gone. The teen was tottering towards the man at the crosswalk, looking both terrified and hopeful at the same time. "Scottie, what are you doing!"

"I am going to say hi," Scottie said, jaw set.

"Oh no you aren't!" Emily latched onto his arm and dug her heels into the concrete. "What happened to being shy, huh?!"

"I can be embarrassed later. Right now, I'm running on fangirl joy."

"Think about this logically-"

"I don't have enough blood in my adrenaline system for that."

Emily sighed and let go of him. She crushed her suitcase to her stomach in his arm's place and hurried along beside him. "Okay. Whatever. Just... please tell me you're not going to be too big of a creep, alright? I don't want to get a restraining order against me on my first day in London."

"No promises!" Scottie sang. "Hey! Mr. Freeman? Excuse me, Mr. Freeman!"

The light changed and the man hobbled to the other side of the street before they could get there, and Emily and Scottie had to jog to catch up. The man didn't acknowledge his name being shouted. He was seemingly trying to run away from them, with his head down and collar up, walking at a pace that was just a little too fast to be believable for someone with a cane. Despite his best efforts, the man was still limping, and Scottie and Emily were a lot younger than him.

"Excuse me, sir?" Scottie tapped his elbow, and the man finally stopped and turned to look at them. "Um, hi! You're Martin Freeman, right? I'm gonna try not to be too obnoxious here, but I j-just wanted to say that I-think-you're-totally-rad and stuff, so... A-Also I very much like your face. Like, a lot."

"Erm," Emily said. "Hello. I'd really like it if you'd sign my laptop. But you don't have to if you don't want to I guess."

The man stared at them both. "Sorry? Do I know you two?"

It was definitely his voice.

"Uh, no," Scottie said. "But we're really big fans of yours!"

"He is," Emily corrected. "I'm just... an average-sized, not-creepy one."

"Look, I think you kids have got me confused with another bloke," the man said kindly, but with a hint of weariness in his voice. "I'm not this, uh... Morgan Freeman, or whoever."

"What," Scottie said flatly and glanced at Emily. "If it looks like a Martin Freeman and sounds like a Martin Freeman, chances are it's a Martin Freeman. He's even dressed like John and everything!"

"Sorry, did you say John?" the man asked. "Because that's me. John Watson. But I'm not famous or anything, and I certainly don't have any fans. Maybe there's been a mix up?"

Scottie and Emily stared at him for a very long time, making Not-Martin-Freeman shift uneasily.

"I don't geddit," Scottie said.

"Maybe Martin cosplays as his own characters and wanders around town just to mess with people?" Emily offered. "I mean, that's what I would do if I were a famous actor."

"I told you, I'm not this Martin fellow," the man said in annoyance. "My name is John Watson. I'm just a regular, unemployed doctor. Look, are you kids lost or something? Where are your parents?"

"They're dead, we ate them."

"Scottie."

"We think they're trapped in an alternate dimension somewhere in America."

"Scottie."

"The states?" Not-Martin-Freeman's eyebrows shot up and nearly hit his hairline. "Oh, don't tell me you two are here all by your lonesomes!"

"This is impossible," Emily said. She was rubbing her eyes again. "He can't be John Watson. Because if John Watson is here, then that must mean that we..."

Emily and Scottie glanced at each other. John fucking Watson made a confused sort of noise, just a few feet in front of them.

A car door slammed and all three jumped and turned to look. "Thank you," a baritone voice rumbled as its owner handed the taxi driver a bill and then started towards the trio. "Oh, John! Hello!"

"Oh my God oh my God oh my God it's him," Scottie squeaked and threw his arms around Emily.

"Scottie, you're crushing my-"

John stepped towards the newcomer with a pleasantly surprised smile. "Ah, Mr. Holmes!"

They clasped hands and the second man grinned at him. "Please. Just Sherlock." Scottie choked and buried his face in Emily's shoulder, which attracted the men's attention. "Who's this?" Sherlock asked, suspicious.

"I don't know these kids," John said. "They approached me."

"You're Sherlock Holmes, oh my God," Scottie squealed.

"Ah! Fans of my website, I see," Sherlock said and puffed out his chest.

"Yes! That's it! Your website," Emily said. "We, uh. We love it. Big fans. It's great, with all the... the Sherlock-y things on it, and... yes. Scottie, let go of me."

"Even with the coat and scarf and everything," Scottie said as Emily pried him off of her. "Jesus Christ, look at him, he's perfection. With those eyes and cheekbones and hair and lips-"

John stiffened and tugged on Sherlock's coat sleeve. "Mr. Hol-er, Sherlock. Maybe we should get going? What about that... that flat you were telling me about?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but his eyes narrowed with interest. He gave the two teens a once-over.

"Oh, look! He's deducing me!" Scottie said. "This is so exciting!"

Both of the teens had seen the word-vomit Sherlock was prone to when making a deduction, but being the focus of it in person was a much different experience. More violent. Less like vomit and more like an explosion, unless you're talking about an infant with pyloric stenosis.

"Two minors from the US," Sherlock blurted. "Been wandering around lost, I can tell by the scuffs on your shoes. So you haven't been in London long enough to familiarize yourself with it, nor are you intending to stay for an extended period of time, judging by the size of your luggage. Got a bit of money on you-crumbs from breakfast, there-though I'm assuming it's not nearly enough, otherwise you'd have a place to go-somewhere to live. I'd say you were running away from home, if not for your relationship..."

"Their relationship?" John interrupted. "Oh, er. Sorry, continue..."

"Hmm, yes. Relationship. The boy-gay, obviously, so not boyfriend and girlfriend-"

Scottie raised a finger. "Um, technically-"

"Not siblings, either," Sherlock continued. "Brands of clothes and shampoo are on entirely different ends of the manufacturing spectrum, so not from the same household..."

"When did he sniff our shampoo?" Emily whispered to Scottie, who shrugged.

"I wonder," Sherlock said with a dangerous glint in his eyes. He took a step forward, towering over both of them. "How did you get to London, then? You obviously didn't take a plane or a boat, looking at your hair. And as for how much you seem to know about my person, far more than what one would find on my website-"

"That's brilliant," John breathed.

Sherlock jumped back and turned to look at him. "Pardon?"

"Er, nothing," John mumbled. "Just... I mean... How do you do that? It's like you can read people's minds!"

"Oh!" Sherlock smiled. "Ha. Well, no, not exactly like that..."

"You guys are hot."

"Scottie!" Emily clapped a hand over her friend's mouth and started backing away. "Um, I'm so sorry for bothering you two gentlemen. We should be going now. Come on, Scottie..."

John tried to look like he wasn't concerned, but Sherlock noticed. "Uh, okay. Bye, then?"

"Actually," Sherlock said. "We can't very well let a couple of poor, lost children wander the streets of London all alone with no money, can we?"

Everyone looked at him in surprise, and he affected an expression of innocence on his face.

"Oh! Er, yes," John said, relieved. "I'd feel right bad about that, I would. What do you propose we do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smirked. "The flat you came here to inspect, Doctor. There's another one available within the same building, 221c. Perhaps these two could stay there? At least for the time being."

"Wait, really?" Scottie said.

"Is this serious?" Emily asked. "Are we being punk'd?"

Both of them glanced around, looking for hidden cameras.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," John said, then paused and bit his lip. "Well, I mean. As long as it's no trouble, of course?"

"Certainly not!" Sherlock said. "And the landlady would be delighted. She loves young ones, taking care of them and all."

John released the breath he was holding and smiled. "Great. Great! So uh, where is this flat you're talking about again?" Sherlock pointed in amusement at the door not far up the street from them that read 221b, and John blushed. "Oh. Right. Well, don't I feel embarrassed..."

"How did we not notice that there," Emily said, horrified at her own lack of perceptiveness.

"You see, but you do not observe," Sherlock replied loftily and led them towards the famous flat, coat swishing.

"This is the place, then?" John asked over Sherlock's banging on the door. "It's quite the prime spot. Must be expensive."

"Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, has given me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida." Sherlock sniffed and tried to look nonchalant. "I was able to help out."

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock, Scottie, and Emily said at the same time, "Oh no, I ensured it."

All four of them stood in panicked silence for a moment.

"Er," John began. "What?"

"MINDMELD," Scottie shouted happily.

"I think what he means is... we'd be delighted to take the flat under you guys," Emily said.

Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, but that was when Mrs. Hudson answered the door and shooed them all inside. Everyone was properly introduced to each other-Mrs. Hudson was ecstatic about having children in the house, as predicted-and Sherlock took John upstairs while the teens were shown around 221c. Unlike in the TV show, the bottom flat held a dusty table, a few chairs, and two twin beds that Scottie greatly enjoyed bouncing on.

"Really, we insist."

Mrs. Hudson scoffed and shoved the money back at Emily. "Oh, don't worry about it, dears. We'll discuss the rent with Sherlock later. Now, just leave your things here, you can get settled in some other time. Let's go see how the boys are faring!"

Scottie flopped off the bed he'd claimed as his own and excitedly went to follow the older woman upstairs, but Emily grabbed his elbow and trailed behind.

"Don't you think it's a little weird?" she whispered.

"What is?"

"How everything's just... smoothing itself over. I don't like it. It's making me paranoid."

"It's called good luck, Emily. Don't question it."

Sherlock was awkwardly shuffling loose papers around on his desk when they entered. "Um, well. Obviously I can, uh... straighten things up... a bit," he was saying. He shuffled more papers without actually sorting any of them.

John looked like he was trying not to laugh. His eyes landed on the skull on the mantel and he pointed at it with his cane. "That's a skull."

"Friend of mine." Sherlock stabbed some letters into the wood of the mantel with a knife. "Or, well. I say friend..."

"I wonder what your skull would look like on my wall," Scottie whispered with an airy Irish accent.

"Scottie, no. Stop that," Emily said, glancing around. "They're going to become suspicious if we keep quoting them and their future selves..."

"What do you think then, Dr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson asked with a pleasant smile. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms?"

John turned around and frowned at her, confused. "Of course we'll be needing two..."

Sherlock hid his smirk behind a box he was moving.

"Are you sure, Dr. Watson?" Scottie asked innocently.

"Oh, don't worry dear, there's all sorts around here," Mrs. Hudson said as she wandered into the kitchen. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones, you know."

"What? We're not..." John motioned towards Sherlock helplessly, and the other man just shrugged and continued rearranging things. "I've only first met this guy yesterday!"

"Oh, my," Emily gasped. "You sure do move fast, Dr. Watson."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson shouted from the kitchen. "Oh, my boy. Look at the mess you've made."

John threw himself down in the nearest armchair and glowered at them all in silence for a moment. "I looked you up on the internet last night," he told Sherlock with a tense smile.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked, attempting to look like he wasn't listening intently.

"Found your website. The Science of Deduction."

Sherlock perked up. "Really? What did you think?" John raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock frowned back.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie... and an airline pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a nod. When John gave him a look, he elaborated. "It's the same way I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" John pressed, leaning forward.

"What about these suicides, then, Sherlock? Thought that'd be right up your street," Mrs. Hudson said as she stepped back into the living room with a newspaper. "Three of them, all exactly the same..."

Scottie suddenly gasped and ran to the window to peek down at the police car parked under it. "Oh my God yes. I am uber excited for this part, you have no idea."

"Four." Sherlock's voice came from over Scottie's shoulder. "There's been a fourth, and something's different this time." Scottie skipped back to Emily's side and waited, bouncing from foot to foot, as Lestrade stomped up the stairs and into the flat. "Where?" Sherlock asked him.

"Bridgestone, Lauriston Gardens." Lestrade noticed Scottie and Emily and smiled at them. Scottie squeaked back. "Why d'you have a couple of brats in your place, Sherlock? Never thought you'd be one for kids."

"Ignore them," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me unless there's something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

Lestrade's face hardened. "This one did. Will you come?"

"Yes," Emily said.

"No," Sherlock told her, and then turned back to Lestrade. "Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson..."

Sherlock groaned. "Anderson won't work with me!"

"Well he won't be your assistant," Lestrade said, scowling.

"But I need an assistant!"

"I CAN BE YOUR ASSISTANT," Scottie shouted.

"Will you stop-"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said loudly. "Will you come or not?"

"Yes!" Emily said again.

Sherlock sighed. "Not in the police car. I'll be right behind."

Lestrade let out a breath and nodded. "Thank you." Sherlock waited until the DI was safely out of sight before he exploded with words again.

"Brilliant! Yes! Oh, four serial suicides and now a note! Ah! It's Christmas!" Sherlock did a blissful piruet across the room to grab his coat from where he left it. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and wandered back into the kitchen. "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do! John." Sherlock turned to his new flatmate and tied his scarf around his neck. "Have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Emily, Scottie, behave. Don't wait up!"

"Yes, Mom," Emily replied, but the detective was already jogging down the stairs.

"Aw, I wanted to go," Scottie mumbled and flopped onto the couch.

"Look at him, dashing about!" Mrs. Hudson patted John's shoulder. "My husband used to be the same."

"He's not my-eh, nevermind."

"You're more the sitting down type, I can tell," she said. "I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John shouted. Everyone jumped and looked at him. He sighed and stared at his shoes, rubbing the offending appendage. "Sorry, so sorry... It's just that sometimes, this bloody thing..."

"I understand, dear, I've got a hip."

"A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you," John said as he picked up the discarded newspaper.

"I'll have one too please, if it's not too much trouble?" Emily said.

"Just this once, dears," Mrs. Hudson said as she walked back downstairs. "I'm not your housekeeper."

"And a couple of biscuits as well, if you've got them..."

"Not your housekeeper!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" Emily called.

"Heehee, look. Sherlock has one of these sudoku Rubik's cube things," Scottie said and got up to pluck the toy off of the detective's desk.

"Scottie, you might not want to touch that. No way he'll not notice, and who knows what he'll do to you if you mess it up," Emily warned.

"But I wanna be a smarty-pants too," Scottie whined and started twisting the sides seemingly at random.

Emily made a disgruntled noise. After a pause, she walked over and sneakily began to reach for the violin case lying on the desk.

"You're a doctor," Sherlock purred from the doorway, having slunk in without anyone noticing. Emily guiltily jumped back and wound her fingers in her hair. "In fact, you're an army doctor..."

John stood in surprise and straightened his sweater. "Ahem. Yes."

"Any good?"

"Very good."

Sherlock stalked towards him playfully. "Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths?"

"Oh, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

Pause.

"Wanna see some more?" Sherlock asked, looking like an excited child.

"Oh, God yes," John replied just as eagerly. Sherlock started back down the stairs, and John pulled on his jacket as he followed. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea! We're going out!"

Scottie put the cube back on the desk and he and Emily hurried after them. "Hey, we wanna come too!"

"Yes, take us with you," Emily said. "We can help you with your case."

"Absolutely not," John replied from the bottom of the stairs. "A crime scene is no place for children!"

Sherlock paused in the front doorway to pull on his gloves. "Babysitting would only get in my way, and I don't want anything slowing me down right now," he drawled. "Come along, John."

"I don't think you understand, Mr. Holmes." Emily pushed her way around John and approached Sherlock. "We could legitimately speed up this case, if only you'd let us-"

"No."

"It's not like we're retarded toddlers," Scottie said. "We're old enough to sit quietly in the corner and not cause any trouble."

"I said no. I don't want you there, John doesn't want you there. End of discussion." Sherlock turned to sneer at them. "Go find a permanent place of residence while we're out, will you?"

"Ouch," Emily said with a wince.

John hesitated. "Um, I have no clue how long we'll be gone. If we're not back by dinner, ask Mrs. Hudson? Order some take out, or help yourself to whatever's in the fridge-"

"That's probably a bad idea, considering," Scottie mumbled.

"Yes, yes. We're not completely helpless, John," Emily said and rolled her eyes. "We do know how to feed ourselves, I promise we won't starve to death in the next three hours."

"Jooohn, let's goooo," Sherlock whined. "We are not signing up to be their mummy and daddy!"

Mrs. Hudson came out of her own place next to 221c. "Are the both of you leaving?"

"Possible suicides? Four of them?" Sherlock said and grabbed her by the shoulders. "There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" He kissed her on the cheek, making her giggle and swat at his arm.

"Oh, look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

Sherlock scoffed and swooped towards the door. "Yesss, not decent. The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"

The remaining four watched him pop outside to call a taxi, slamming the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson muttered something about her boys running all about making a ruckus and retreated into her own flat.

"Um," John said. "Well, bye. Try not to burn the building down while we're gone, okay?" He awkwardly patted both teens on the head and then followed Sherlock out.

"...let's chase them," Scottie said.

"No. I think this is for the best," Emily muttered. "This is their first real outing together, the one where they start forming their bromance and whatnot. We shouldn't interfere with that. Besides, they're just going to check out the body of the pink lady..."

"And meet Mycroft," Scottie said, his annoyance rising. "And go dumpster diving for her case. Man, I really wanna chase them now..."

"They'll be back in a couple of hours," Emily protested.

"But what will we do until then?"

They both looked at each other. "Internet!"

The two teens curled up on opposite ends of the couch in 221b with their respective laptops and sent each other silly pictures for a while, but then Scottie got distracted by some fanfiction and Emily started doodling in her sketchbook. The next thing they knew, Sherlock was stomping in with a dirty pink suitcase in his arms and setting it in his chair.

"Oh hey, that's Jennifer Wilson's case!" Scottie said with a grin. "Can I touch it?"

Sherlock twitched in the middle of unzipping the suitcase's front pocket, but he quickly regained control and began rifling through the dead woman's things.

"We really would like to help you, Sherlock," Emily offered. "I think you'll find we know a lot more than you'd believe."

The detective froze and stared at her over his shoulder with wide eyes for one tense moment. Scottie reached across to poke the case but Sherlock swatted his hand away, and then the older man was investigating again with a renewed determination to ignore the both of them. They watched him struggle with the woman's blouses for a while until Sherlock groaned in frustration, slammed the case to the floor, and began pacing. He paused in front of the couch and reluctantly addressed the two teens.

"Does either one of you have a mobile I can borrow?" he asked.

"No," Scottie said.

"Yes, but it's not on me right now." Emily glanced around the flat. "In fact, I'm not quite sure where it is, exactly. I always seem to magically lose it in the weirdest ways..." She looked up to examine the ceiling, as if expecting it to be floating there.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled. Pause. There was no answer. "MRS. HUDSON!"

"Oooh, okay," Emily said. "Everyone screech out their anger all at once, alright? One two three, go!"

All three of them took deep breaths and shouted, "MRS. HUUUD-SOOOOON!"

"Just the yawps this time!" Scottie said. "One, two, three-"

"What?" Sherlock asked, glancing between them.

The two teens yelled together as loud as they could, "YAAAAAWP!"

Silence.

Sherlock sighed and crammed himself onto the couch between the two teens, inadvertently shoving his head into Emily's crotch and his feet into Scottie's gallbladder.

"Sir, I don't think I know you well enough for this," Emily said.

"One of you go fetch me my nicotine patches," Sherlock mumbled as he closed his eyes and threw an arm over his face. "They're somewhere on my desk."

He obviously meant Scottie, but Emily shoved the detective's head off her lap and let it hit the arm of the couch as she stood. Seconds later, a pack of nicotine patches smacked Sherlock in the chest.

"There you go," Emily said sweetly.

Sherlock glared at her and proceeded to cover his forearm in way too many patches before tossing the package aside and going limp with a satisfied sigh.

Scottie cleared his throat. "Actually, if I could get up as well, that would be-" Sherlock's feet nestled comfortably into Scottie's kidneys. "...or y'know, whatever. That's okay too."

After a moment Sherlock fished his cell phone out of his pocket, texted John, and then went back to his quiet thinking. Emily decided she wanted to sit down again, so she and Scottie rearranged the limp Sherlock into a more comfortable position, with his head on Scottie's stomach and his feet on the armrest so Emily could use his shins as a table for her sketch pad. Sherlock didn't seem to mind Scottie playing with his hair as long as the boy allowed him to look up long enough to send some texts.

After a few minutes of silence, Emily whispered in a horrible Australian accent, "and now we observe the elusive consulting detective in his natural habitat."

Scottie choked out a laugh and tried not to move his stomach too much. It didn't work; Sherlock grunted at him to keep still while he was trying to think. "Aye," Scottie whispered back in an accent that was just as bad in its accuracy. "Tha's a rare beast roigh' theah. One'a th'only known specimens in th'wold."

"Unfortunately, the consulting detective is an endangered species. Their lack of adaptability has caused their numbers to dwindle in recent years."

"This'll be th'very first documented sightin' of a consulting detective in the wild, so we hafta be extremely careful not ta startle 'im..."

Sherlock made a face at them without opening his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin.

"Oh, look!" Emily whispered excitedly. "He's retreating into his Mind Palace to hibernate!"

The detective's eyes snapped open, but he tried to cover it by flipping open his phone again and staring at its screen. He hesitated before sending John another text.

"Now he's calling his mate back to their territory so they can gather resources in preparation for the long winter ahead," Scottie said knowingly. Sherlock glared at him but kept quiet.

"I wonder if they'll snuggle to keep warm."

"Yes. To keep warm. Riiiiight."

This continued for a while, and it only seemed to get more amusing the longer the teens kept at it. Eventually there were footsteps on the stairs, and then John was standing frozen in the doorway, staring. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Narrating Sherlock's life like it's a bad nature show," Emily said.

Scottie smoothed the detective's hair back from his face. "Crikey, look at 'im! Ain't he a beaut?"

"What? No," John said and pointed at Sherlock. "I meant him."

The detective's arm dropped off the edge of the sofa from where he had been rubbing the crease of his elbow. "Nicotine patch," he mumbled. "Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

John's inner Nazi doctor fluffed up his feathers indignantly. "Yes, well. Good news for breathing," he hissed.

"Ugh, breathing. Breathing's boring," Sherlock droned.

"Is that three patches?" John demanded.

"Three patch problem," Scottie, Emily, and Sherlock said in harmony. Another awkward silence followed.

"Right. Whelp, you asked me to come," John said with a sigh. "I'm assuming it's important?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, and then he gasped. "Oh! Yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

John's eyes narrowed. "My phone?"

"Yeah. Don't want to use mine. Always a chance the number will be recognized, it's on the website."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mrs. Hudson has a phone..."

"Yeah, she's downstairs," Sherlock said. "I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

"All three of us at once, it was great!" Scottie said happily.

"Technically, you and I were yawping," Emily corrected. "Either way, Mrs. Hudson needs her hearing checked..."

"You two couldn't have helped him out?" John asked through gritted teeth.

"I don't have a cell phone."

"And mine's... somewhere. Useless things, phones are."

"We didn't want to get up, either," Scottie said.

"I was on the other side of London!" John shouted.

"It's okay, no hurry," Sherlock said soothingly.

"No rush," Scottie sang in an Irish accent, and Emily elbowed him.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and threw it at Sherlock, who caught it without looking. "There. Is this about the case?"

"Yes, her suitcase, obviously," Sherlock mumbled. "The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake..."

"Huh? Okay, he took her case. So?"

Sherlock hummed to himself. "No, it's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it. John!" The detective threw the phone back, making John fumble and almost drop it in his panic. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text-"

"You brought me here to send a text," John said flatly.

"Text, yes, the number on the desk." Sherlock finally cracked his eyes open and turned to look at his flatmate, who kept glancing out the living room window. "What's wrong, John?"

The doctor's mouth twisted up and he began rifling through the papers on Sherlock's desk in search of the phone number he was supposed to find. "I just met a friend of yours," he said after a while.

"Friend?!" all three on the couch asked in alarm.

"Enemy, rather."

"Oh!" Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. "Which one?"

"Your archenemy, according to him. Do people even have archenemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asked, staring at the back of his flatmate's head.

John hesitated. "Yes..."

"Did you take it?"

"No."

Sherlock made a disappointed noise. "Pity. We could've split the fee. Think it through next time, John."

The doctor huffed and turned to look at Sherlock. "And just who is he, anyway?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now. On my desk, John, the number."

John sighed and began reading off the paper on Sherlock's desk. "Hold on, Jennifer Wilson? Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes, that's not important, just enter the number," Sherlock snapped. "Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Not yet, hang on!"

"These words exactly," Sherlock said. "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must've blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

"You blacked out?" John asked, eyebrows furrowed.

"What? No. No!" Sherlock jumped up, nearly kicking Emily in the face. "Title and send it, quickly." He began rummaging through a pile of things beside his armchair. "Have you sent it?"

"What was it again?" John asked as he slowly typed the message with one finger.

"Oh, for goodness's sake, give me that thing!" Emily stood, snatched the phone away from John, banged out the correct words in a matter of seconds, pressed send, and then handed the cell phone back to its owner. "There. It's done."

"Good!" Sherlock pulled the suitcase up onto the coffee table and crouched in his chair, staring straight ahead intently.

"That's Jennifer Wilson's missing case, then?" Emily asked.

"Yes, obviously."

"Can I go through her crap now?" Scottie whined and stepped forward.

John's eyes widened and he grabbed Scottie's elbow, pulling him away from the detective. "Scottie..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at them. "Oh. Perhaps I should mention that I didn't kill her."

"Never said you did," John mumbled as he took a step back.

"Why not?" Sherlock sneered. "Given the text I've just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

John hesitated before letting go of Scottie's arm. The teen cheerfully bounced over to the case and began poking through it. "Do... Do people normally assume you're the murderer?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at his shoes. "Now and then, yes."

John sat in the armchair across from him. "Oookay. And, uh, how did you get this again?"

"By looking," Sherlock responded.

"Where...?"

Sherlock stood and began pacing. "The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens, he could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously, he felt compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. It wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes away from Lauriston Gardens, and any way you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

John raised an eyebrow at him. "And you got all of that because you realized the case would be pink?"

Sherlock looked at him like he was retarded. "Of course, it had to be pink. Obviously."

"Obviously," Emily said.

"Obviously," Scottie repeated.

John shifted in his seat. "Why didn't I think of that?" he mumbled.

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock replied. John looked offended. "Oh, no no no. Don't take it like that. Practically everyone is!" Sherlock jumped back into his chair and perched there. "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case?" John asked. "How could I?"

"Her phone," Sherlock said. "Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, no phone in the case. We know she had one, that's her number over there, Emily just texted it..."

John shrugged. "Maybe she left it at home."

"She has a string of lovers, and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home," Sherlock corrected.

John gasped in realization. "Oh, no. Why did you just have Emily send that text?"

"Well, the question is, where is her phone now?" Sherlock asked with a mischievous grin.

"She could've lost it," Scottie suggested after a pause.

"Yesss, or...?"

"The murderer," John said. "You think the murderer has her phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left the case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, there's a good probability that the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry, what are we doing?" Emily asked. "Did I just text a murderer?"

"Did she just text a murderer on my phone?" John demanded. "What good will that do?"

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her," Sherlock muttered. "If someone just found the phone, they'd ignore a text like that. But the murderer?" As if on cue, John's cell phone began ringing. "He'd panic," Sherlock said with malicious glee.

John placed the phone as far away from him on the coffee table as possible and stared at it until it stopped ringing. "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead, there's no time to talk to the police!"

"Then why are you talking to us?" Scottie asked.

Sherlock pouted in the direction of the mantel. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull..."

John frowned. "So we're basically filling in for your skull?"

"Relax," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "You're doing fine." He stood and began putting on his coat and scarf, then looked at John expectantly. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well, you could just sit here and watch telly..."

"What, you want us to come with you?" John asked in surprise.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. A skull just attracts attention, so..." Sherlock shrugged and looked away. John smiled at him, opening his mouth to speak.

"Well, I'm convinced," Scottie said and jumped up. "Come on, Emily, let's go!"

"Right behind you!"

Sherlock groaned. "Oh, for God's sake-"

"Scottie, Emily. What did I say?" John asked, scowling. "Dangerous serial killers. You're staying home."

"Aw, but mooooom," Emily whined.

"We'll just follow you in a taxi, we already know where you're going," Scottie said.

"Okay, look." Sherlock took a menacing step towards the teens. "I can't stop you from tagging along on our investigations, but rest assured, if bullets start flying-as they usually do-I will be using you as a human shield."

"I can live with that," Scottie said.

"Deal!" Emily stuck out her hand. "Shake on it?"

"No!" John stood and waved his cane at them. "I will not have a couple of kids running off after murderers, especially not ones that I am now unofficially responsible for! You're not following us, and that's that."

"So you will be coming, then?" Sherlock asked with wide, innocent eyes.

"Oh, uh... I, well." John swallowed. "Yes, I suppose I will."

Sherlock smiled. John didn't smile back. "Problem?" Sherlock asked, face carefully blank.

"Eh, yeah... Sergeant Donovan-"

"What about her?" Sherlock snapped.

"She said you get off on this," John mused. "That you enjoy it."

Sherlock sniffed. "And I said dangerous, and yet here you are." He swooped out of the room with a dramatic swish of his coat.

"Dammit," John muttered, limping after the detective.

"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE MISSING!" Emily shouted at their backs.

"Whatevs. This is the part where they go running around London after a cab," Scottie said. "We'll catch the next adventure, one that involves less exercise."

"But they're going to go meet Angelo," Emily protested. "This is their date we're missing. The famous moment where, for the first time in history, a Holmes and a Watson openly discuss their sexualities with each other!"

"Yeah," Scottie said. "But also, running."

Emily sighed. "Okay, fine. Internet?"

"Internet!" Scottie crowed.

And then they went back to their respective positions on the sofa. Fifteen minutes into the first Find the Cutest Kitten Picture competition, Emily suddenly sat up and whipped her head around.

"What was that?!"

"What was what?" Scottie asked.

Emily turned to look at him. "You didn't hear that?"

"Obviously not," he said.

"I... think it was a knock at the front door."

Scottie raised an eyebrow. "Who do you suppose it is?"

"Not John and Sherlock. They wouldn't have knocked, it's their place."

"Maybe it's the pizza man."

"This is serious, Scottie."

They somberly exited the windows with kittens, put their laptops away, and ventured downstairs. Whomever it was at the door knocked again, and Mrs. Hudson started banging around in her flat.

"Now who could that be, knocking down my door..."

"We'll get it, Mrs. Hudson!" Emily yelled.

"Oh, God," Scottie said and clung to Emily's shirt sleeve. "What if we messed up the timeline and now Moriarty's come to kidnap and torture us?"

"Calm down, don't think like that!" Emily petted his shoulder soothingly. "Mycroft is a far more likely option."

Scottie groaned and hid his face behind his hands; he stayed close to Emily's back as she prepared to turn the doorknob. "We're gonna die," he whispered.

"Shh," she said and cracked the door open. The only thing they could see was a dark jacket and silver hair.

"Well, doesn't look like he's home," the man was saying. "Anderson, go fetch the spare key out of my car, will you?"

Emily opened the door a couple feet farther to reveal an entire drug squad on their doorstep. "Um, hello?"

Lestrade turned around and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh, hey. You're those kids Sherlock had with him. You're still here?"

"Er... yeah," Emily said. "We live in the flat under him now."

"Oh, great," Donovan whispered not-so-quietly. "The freak's got a couple of minors on a leash. Wonder what experiments he's been doing on them."

"He'll probably be dragging the brats to crime scenes with him," Anderson whined.

"Think we could get him for neglect and reckless endangerment? Eeh?"

Lestrade could see Scottie fluffing up his fur and readying himself for a catfight. The DI stepped forward and attempted to block the two officers from the children's sights. "Nevermind that," Lestrade said sweetly with a smile. "Where's Mr. Holmes now, loves?"

"Oh, um," Emily began. "He's not-"

"Just upstairs," Scottie said. "Chilling out in his Mind Palace. 'Fraid he didn't hear you knocking, sorry about that."

"Oh, no worries." Lestrade flapped a hand at them. "Could you go fetch him, please? I'd like a word with him."

"S-Sorry, Inspector. No can do," Emily said. "He... threatened to experiment on our laptops with acid if we bothered him."

"Yeah. You know how he can get sometimes," Scottie said with a sigh.

Lestrade grinned too wide with teeth that were too white. "Mhmm. You kids'll make fine liars yet." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge to waggle it in their faces. "I respectfully suggest you let us in."

Scottie turned to Emily, scandalized. "Can he do that?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. Apparently."

Turns out he could. Scottie and Emily didn't make it easy for them, though.

"You probably shouldn't touch that," Scottie said as he followed Donovan around the kitchen. "Sherlock really doesn't like it when his things are-"

"Oooooh," Emily cooed as Anderson bent over an open drawer. "Sherlock is going to murder you when he finds out you moved his-"

"Are you sure you want to pick that up? Looks like something's growing on it."

"I have no idea what that machine is, but I heard John and Sherlock talking about it before, using words like 'fatal' and 'agonizing'..."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Sherlock was telling us about his boobytraps earlier today..."

"Guys, I'm pretty sure there's a live rattlesnake in there. But no, you're right, you have to check everywhere. I understand. Go ahead, open it."

Eventually, Lestrade yelled at them to go sit outside on the landing until the drug squad was done.

"This is bullshit," Emily said.

"You're bullshit."

"Shut up, Scottie. 'Hindering an investigation' my ass."

"Speaking of asses, let's talk about Detective Inspector Lestrade-"

"No. I don't want to talk about his ass. I want to punch him in the face."

"He'd probably arrest you."

"I know. Ugh... I have no idea why this is bothering me so much. I didn't even blink at the drugs bust in the episode! It's just... half of Scotland Yard is in there rifling through Sherlock's underwear drawer, y'know?"

"Seems more personal, now that we're living with them," Scottie agreed. "They could probably start going through our stuff too, if they wanted."

"I'd rather not think about that."

The two teens fell silent. After a while, Scottie began, "I spy with my little eye, something..."

Emily humored him. She shouldn't have.

Ten minutes later she was saying, "That is not teal."

"It so is."

"That is cyan, Scottie. Idiot."

"No, cyan is bluer and brighter than-"

The front door banged open and Sherlock and John stumbled in, panting heavily between hysterical giggles. They collapsed against the nearest wall and clutched their stomachs.

"...most ridiculous thing I've ever done," John was wheezing.

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock blurted, and another wave of giggles attacked them.

"That wasn't just me, y'know!"

Sherlock snorted at him.

Scottie waved from the top of the stairs. "Um, guys-"

"Why aren't we back at the restaurant?" John gasped, struggling to regulate his breathing.

"Oh, they can keep an eye out over there. It was a long shot anyway."

"Guys," Scottie said, louder.

"Then what were we doing there in the first place, Sherlock?"

"Oh, just passing the time," Sherlock said. He turned and grinned at John. "Also proving a point."

Emily trotted down the stairs to stand in front of the detective. "Sherlock, there's-"

"What point?" John mumbled.

"You," Sherlock replied, leaning back against the wall with a dreamy sigh. "Mrs. Hudson?" he called. "Dr. Watson will be taking the room upstairs after all!"

Emily turned to the other man instead. "John, listen. In your flat, there's-"

"Says who?" John interrupted.

"Says the man at the door," Sherlock told him with a mysterious smile. Just then there was a knock from out front, and John looked amazed.

Emily, far more used to Sherlock's antics, crossed her arms and cocked her hip to the side. Well. Guess she wasn't going to get a word in edgewise until they were done having their moment.

John sent Sherlock a curious glance and answered the front door at the same time Scottie came down the stairs to join Emily. "Okay look," the boy said. "I know you two just got back from your it's-fine-if-you-like-blokes-because-we'll-always-be-besties chat at Angelo's, but listen. After you guys left, at the door there were these-"

Sherlock shushed him.

"Did... Did you just shush me?" Scottie asked indignantly. "Did you see that? He just shushed me!"

"Sherlock texted me," Angelo told John, holding out the man's cane. "He said you'd left this."

"Oh," John breathed. He took the cane and stared at it in his hand for a while. "Yes. Yes, thank you. Thank you!" John practically slammed the door in Angelo's face and whirled to stare at his flatmate with bright eyes. "Oh, Sherlock, I-"

"SHERLOCK," Emily shouted in the man's ear. "I AM SORRY TO RUIN YOUR ROMANTIC MOMENT WITH DR. WATSON BUT THERE ARE POLICEMEN UPSTAIRS MESSING WITH YOUR EXPERIMENTS."

Sherlock and John jumped and looked at Emily as if they hadn't seen her there before.

"What," John said.

"Upstairs," Emily replied, motioning for them to hurry. "You might wanna, y'know, go see for yourself."

Suddenly, Sherlock paled and dashed up the staircase. "Not my experiments!" John was close behind him, with Scottie and Emily following at a safe distance.

"Sorry, Sherlock," Scottie said. "We tried to keep them out, but Lestrade is sexy when he starts his Detective Inspector act, and I am weak-"

Sherlock skidded to a halt in the doorway. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

Lestrade, flopped over Sherlock's chair with the pink suitcase open beside him, stared back at the detective with a raised eyebrow. "Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid."

Sherlock drifted into the middle of the living room, tugging at his own hair as he saw the damage the drug squad was doing. "But... But you can't just break into my flat!"

"And you can't withhold evidence," Lestrade replied testily. "Besides, I didn't break into your flat."

"Oh, really? Well, what do you call this then?" Sherlock asked, flailing one arm out to indicate the other officers milling about in his kitchen.

Lestrade beamed at him. "It's a drugs bust!"

John barked out a laugh, leaned his cane against the wall, and came to stand beside Sherlock. "Are you serious? This guy? Have you even met him?"

Sherlock winced. "John..."

"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn't find anything you'd call 'recreational'!"

"John," Sherlock hissed. "You'd probably want to shut up now."

"Yeah but, come on..." John turned to face Sherlock, and his smile dropped. "...No."

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "What?"

"You?" John asked, eyes wide.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock snapped and looked away. "I'm not your sniffer dog, Lestrade!"

"No," Lestrade agreed. "Anderson is my sniffer dog."

"What?!" Sherlock whirled to face the kitchen. Anderson, having heard his name being called, leaned through the doorway and wiggled his fingers playfully. "Anderson! What are you doing here on a drugs bust?!"

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson said and ducked back into the kitchen.

"They all did," Lestrade mused. "They're not strictly speaking on the drug squad, but they're very keen!"

Donovan stumbled past with a plastic container, holding it between two fingers and as far away from her body as possible. "Are these human eyes?!"

"Put those back," Sherlock ground out between his teeth.

"But they were in the microwave!"

"It's an experiment!"

"Keep looking, guys!" Lestrade shouted. He returned to smiling pleasantly at Sherlock. "Or you could start helping us properly, and I'll stand them down...?"

Sherlock clenched his fists. "This is childish!"

"Yeah, well, I'm dealing with a child." Lestrade stood and approached the other man, reaching out as if to put a worried hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock... this is our case, and I am letting you in, but you do not go running off on your own like that! Are we clear?"

"Or what?" Sherlock sneered. "You set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

Lestrade's hand dropped back to his side. "It stops being pretend if they find anything."

Sherlock puffed out his chest. "I am clean," he said loudly, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah, but is your flat?" Lestrade asked with a skeptical eyebrow raise. "All of it?"

Sherlock ripped his shirt sleeve open with a huff and shoved it up to expose his forearm-and a nicotine patch. "I don't even smoke," he said.

"Neither do I." Lestrade did the same with his own arm. "See? We're in this together..." Sherlock rolled his eyes and went to stomp off into his bedroom. "We found Rachel," Lestrade called after him.

Sherlock paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Really? Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

Sherlock made a distressed noise, spun back around, and began pacing. "A daughter. But why? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

Anderson walked into the living room, snapping his rubber gloves off. "Nevermind that! We found the case. And according to someone, the murderer has the case. And we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath!"

Sherlock made a display of rolling his eyes. He said, along with Emily and Scottie, "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

Sherlock continued pacing, Emily and Scottie innocently sat on the couch, and every Yarder within hearing distance stopped and stared.

"Yeah, they just do that sometimes," John said.

Sherlock stopped and faced Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in," he said. "You need to question her-no, I need to question her-"

"She's dead," Lestrade said flatly.

Sherlock gasped. "Oh, excellent! How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be!"

"Er, well. I doubt it, seeing as she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never really alive." Sherlock stared at Lestrade uncomprehendingly. "Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter fourteen years ago," Lestrade explained.

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled. "Oh, that's not right. Why would she do that? Why?"

"'Why would she think of her dead daughter in her last moments?'" Anderson chimed in. "Oh yeah, sociopath, I'm really seeing it now."

Sherlock looked like he was trying very hard not to smack Anderson over the head with something. "She didn't think about her daughter," he ground out. "She scratched her name into the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It would've taken effort. It would've hurt."

John cleared his throat and raised a hand. "You said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he, I don't know... 'talks to them.' Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow?"

"No, that was ages ago! Why would she still be upset?" The room fell quiet. Sherlock noticed everyone looking at him and glanced toward John. "What? Not good?"

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "A bit not good, yeah," he sighed.

Sherlock danced anxiously from foot to foot for a moment before he lunged at John. "Look, if you were dying-if you had been murdered... In your very last few seconds, what would you say?"

John stiffened and averted his eyes. "'Please, God, let me live.'"

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, use your imagination!"

John's jaw clenched, and he glared at Sherlock. "I don't have to."

Sherlock's face screwed up in a strange mix between annoyance, concern, and pain. "Yes, but if you were clever. I mean, really clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers? She was clever. She was trying to tell us something!"

Mrs. Hudson toddled into the living room. "Is the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi, go away!" Sherlock said and began pacing again.

"Oh, goodness. They're making such a mess in here! What are they looking for?" Mrs. Hudson wondered aloud as she glanced into the kitchen.

John came and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "It's... It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, dear! But I just hurt my hip, you know, they're herbal soothers, not-"

"Shut up! Everybody shut up!" Sherlock's hands hovered over his face, twitching, as if he didn't know whether to cover his ears or claw out his own eyes first. "Nobody move! Don't speak, don't even breathe! I am trying to think! Anderson, face the other way, you're putting me off."

Anderson gaped. "What? My face is?"

Lestrade sighed and waved his hands. "Alright, everybody quiet and still, please. Anderson, turn your back."

"What? For God's sake-"

"Anderson. Your back. Now, please."

Sherlock was muttering to himself. "Come on, come on... Think, quick..."

"But what about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

Sherlock practically growled at her. "MRS. HUDSON-!" The landlady jumped and hurried downstairs, but Sherlock was back in his mind already. "Oh! Oh... Oh, yes, she was clever! She was clever, very clever, yes... She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead! Do you see? Don't you get it?" A grin spread slowly across Sherlock's face. "She didn't lose her phone, she never lost her phone! She planted it on him! When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer!"

"But how?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock froze, confused. "What? What do you mean how? Rachel! Don't you see? Rachel!" Sherlock glanced around the room and realized no one else was following him. He huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing. Rachel isn't a name!"

"Then what is it?" John snapped, beginning to get annoyed with Sherlock's insults.

The detective opened his laptop on the desk and started typing furiously. "John, on the luggage, there's a label. An email address."

John sighed, feeling around the edge of the suitcase until he found the correct keychain with an identifying sticker on it. " .uk."

"Oh, I've been too slow," Sherlock muttered. "She didn't have a laptop, which means she did all her business on her phone, so it's a smart phone, it's email enabled. So there's a website for her account. The username is her address, and-all together now!-the password is..."

"Rachel," John said, realization dawning.

Anderson crossed his arms. "Okay. So we can read her email now. So what?"

"Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the entire street," Sherlock called over his shoulder. "We can do a lot more than read her emails. It's a smart phone, it's got GPS. Which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly towards the man who killed her!"

"But what if he got rid of it?" Lestrade asked.

"We know he didn't," John said.

Sherlock's leg bounced up and down as he impatiently waited for the online program to track the phone's location. "Come on. Come on. Quickly!"

Mrs. Hudson ventured back into the living room. "Sherlock, dear, this taxi driver is-"

Sherlock grunted at her. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He jumped up and approached Lestrade. "Get vehicles, get helicopters... We've got to move fast. That phone battery won't last forever."

"But we'll just have a map reference," Lestrade began.

"Well, it's a start!"

John slipped into the desk chair and looked at the map on the laptop screen. "Um, Sherlock-"

"Now it's not just anyone in London anymore," Sherlock said excitedly. "This is the first proper lead we've had!"

"Sherlock."

"Yes?" Sherlock crouched behind John, looking over his shoulder. "Yes, where is it?"

"It's... here." John pointed at the map. "See? 221 Baker Street."

Sherlock straightened in shock. "Wh-No! How could it be here?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Maybe it was in the case when you brought it back, and it fell out somewhere."

"What, and I didn't notice it?" Sherlock snapped. "Me? I didn't notice?"

"Anyway," John said. "We texted him, and he called back."

Lestrade turned toward the drug squad. "Okay, guys, we're also looking for a mobile here somewhere..."

John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who was frozen in place, staring out into the dark landing with wide eyes. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"Huh?" Sherlock tilted his head in John's direction but didn't move his gaze. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

John raised an eyebrow at him. "So... how can the phone be here, then?"

"Dunno."

John sighed and turned back to the laptop. "I'll try the GPS again."

"Yeah. Good idea." Sherlock drifted dazedly toward the door, grabbing his coat and scarf on the way past.

"Where are you going?" John asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long."

John bit his lip. "Sherlock? Are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, and then he slipped out the front door.

"That," Scottie said, "was the most intense five minutes of my entire life."

Emily let out a breath she had been holding. "I think my heart stopped for a while there."

The two teens casually bumped their fists together, John let out a nervous laugh, and the drug squad went back to searching. After a few moments, Emily and Scottie went to the front window and pulled the curtains aside.

"Hey, John!" Scottie called. "He just got in a cab!"

"What?"

"Sherlock just rode off in a taxi," Emily said.

"What?" John joined them and watched the cab drive away from Baker Street. "Seriously? Right when we're in the middle of...? Ugh, that man."

"I told you, he does that," Donovan said with a sympathetic frown. Then she raised her voice unnecessarily loud for speaking to Lestrade, who was right beside her. "See? He's left again. We're wasting our time here!"

The other Yarders began to grumble in agreement. John pulled out his phone, dialed, and held it up to his ear. "I'm calling her phone, it's ringing right now."

Lestrade paused to listen. "Well, if it's ringing, it isn't here."

John sighed and hung up. "I'll try that search again-"

"Does it matter?" Donovan snapped. "He's just a lunatic! He let you down, and he'll always let you down. You're wasting our time-all our time!"

John's jaw and fists clenched as the Yarders started grumbling louder. Scottie elbowed him in the side.

"Y'know," he said. "Technically, not punching someone in the face because she's a woman is pretty sexist."

John gave him an appreciative smile and focused on relaxing all his muscles, one by one.

"Alright, alright," Lestrade conceded. "Everybody pack up then, I guess we're done here." The DI watched his team put things back the way they had found them and file out until it was just him, John, and the two kids. "Why did he do that?" Lestrade asked with slumped shoulders. "Why did he have to leave like that?"

John shrugged and gave him a weak smile. "You know him better than I do."

Lestrade looked John over with narrowed eyes. "I've known him for five years, and no, I don't."

John's eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. "Wh-Then why do you put up with him?"

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade sighed. "Because, well... Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think that maybe, one day-if we're very, very lucky-he might even be a good one." Lestrade shrugged, seemingly embarrassed, and saw himself out with a wave goodbye.

"Later, Inspector Sexy," Scottie called after him.

John collapsed in his armchair and buried his face in his hands. Spotting Emily and Scottie still staring at him through his fingers, he looked up with a groan. "What?" he said. "You, uh... You two hungry or something? Should've brought back take out with us while we were gone." They kept staring. "What? I'm not Sherlock, I can't read your minds. If you want anything, you'll have to use words."

"I hope Sherlock's okay, wherever he is," Emily said loudly.

"Yeah," Scottie agreed, just as loud. "Hope he isn't trying to chase down a serial murderer all on his own or anything."

They continued staring.

"Sherlock is a grown man," John said, sitting up in his chair. "He's been taking care of himself for years before I came along..."

"And what if today is the day he needs protecting?" Scottie asked.

John stared back at them for a moment, silent. "Are you two-I mean. You guys aren't...?" He raised his eyebrows and motioned uselessly with his hands.

"I strongly suggest you check the GPS on that phone again," Emily said.

John hesitated before hefting himself out of the armchair and into the desk chair again. "Just for the record," he huffed. "Today has been the weirdest day of my life."

"Yes, it is," Scottie said. "But it's about to get weirder. Where does it say the phone is now?"

John squinted at the screen. "Um, I dunno. It looks like it's inside a building a little while away from here... But that doesn't make sense, it was just-"

"Wait, inside the building?" Emily did a wonderful impression of Scottie flailing. "Oh, crap. They're already at the college!"

"John's running behind," Scottie said, face blank. "Guess we really did fuck up the timeline."

Emily grabbed one of John's arms and unsuccessfully tried to heave him out of the chair while Scottie attempted to shove his other arm through the sleeve of the man's jacket.

"John, don't ask why or how we know this," Emily said. "But you need to go find that phone right now. Sherlock is in deep trouble!"

John easily shook the two kids off of his arms. "What the devil are you two going on about? Honestly, Sherlock just got in a cab five minutes ago and-Oh!"

"Yes, oh," Scottie said. "Now that we're all caught up, can you start saving the day please?"

John didn't argue with them anymore. He shrugged his other arm into his jacket, grabbed the laptop and his cellphone, and jogged down the stairs.

"Hey!" Emily shouted. John turned around, and both teens were right behind him, staring back innocently. "We're coming with you."

"What? No, I..." Scottie's lower lip trembled. John sighed. "...God. Ugh, okay. Okay, let's go."

Scottie was so excited he couldn't stop doing his happy dance the whole way out the door. Emily grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him a few feet away.

"Should we really go with him?" she whispered. "Haven't we meddled enough already?"

Scottie scoffed. "Well, we tried keeping our noses out of everything, and look where that got us."

All three of them piled into the first empty taxi John jumped in front of. Scottie was squished in the middle with the laptop, Emily was charged with telling the cabbie where to go, and John was busy yelling into his cell phone.

"No! Detective Inspector Lestrade, I need to speak with him! It's important! It's an emergency!"

"Left here, please," Emily said. "Then a right on the next street."

They arrived at the college in record time, thanks to Scottie hinting that a hefty tip would be in order if the cabbie ignored all traffic laws. John was throwing the door open before the taxi even began to slow down, but he paused with one leg hanging out of the cab.

"Shit," he said. "Shit shit shit. Er, sorry. Don't use that word, it's bad."

"John, we're sixteen. We don't say shit. We say cuntbag and asswipe and picklefucker and chickenfaggot-"

"Scottie."

"Nevermind," John said. "There are two buildings. Which one am I supposed to go in?"

Scottie looked closely at the map. "Er, it doesn't say. I think he left the phone in the cab... and it's parked between them."

"Well, aren't you supposed to know?" John snapped. "Psychic demon children, or whatever you are?"

Emily pointed at the building on the left. "That one. Just go, we'll take care of the taxi and the laptop and stuff. You go save Sherlock."

"Thank you," John breathed, and then he was out and running. "Don't get into trouble!"

As soon as John was out of sight inside the building, Emily smacked Scottie's arm. "Come on, let's go get into trouble."

"I think I'm rubbing off on you."

They paid the cabbie well and took the laptop with them into the other building. While they didn't know the layout of the college or exactly which room Sherlock would be in, they saved a lot of time by skipping the first floor entirely and running past any double doors that didn't have circular windows.

Somewhere in the middle of the third story, Scottie stumbled to a halt. "Do you hear that?"

"...this is wot... really addicted... anyfin' at all..." Emily followed the faint noises to a room on their right and carefully cracked the door open. "...to stop bein' bored. You're not bored now, are you?" Jeff Hope was saying. "Innit good?"

"Oh, man," Emily whispered. "Oh man oh man oh man oh man, hurry up, John..."

"What?" Scottie crowded in beside her, catching a glimpse of the scene inside through the crack in the door. He flailed when the pill, held in Sherlock's shaking hand, touched the detective's lips. "John isn't going to make it," Scottie hissed. "We have to do something!"

"But what? What can we do?"

Scottie sat cross-legged by the door, balanced Sherlock's laptop on his knees, opened it, and began clicking and typing.

"Um, Scottie-?"

There was a brief instrumental of cheerful music including a xylophone, and then the lyrics to Bullet by Hollywood Undead began blasting from the laptop's speakers at top volume.

"MY LEGS ARE DANGLING OFF THE EDGE! THE BOTTOM OF THE BOTTLE IS MY ONLY FRIEND! I THINK I'LL SLIT MY WRISTS AGAIN-AND I'M GONE, GONE, GONE, GONE...!"

Emily glared at him. "Scottie, no."

"What? I thought it was fitting..."

"MY LEGS ARE DANGLING OFF THE EDGE! A STOMACH FULL OF PILLS DIDN'T WORK AGAIN! I PUT A BULLET IN MY HEAD-AND I'M GONE, GONE, GONE, GONE...!"

Sherlock jumped and fumbled with the pill, nearly dropping it. Unfortunately, he didn't. "What was that?" he asked, eyes wide and turned toward the door.

Jeff cursed. "Er... probably just the cleaners messin' around, yanno. Never ya mind it." The cabbie took a step closer, reaching out as if to take the pill back and shove it down Sherlock's throat. "Now... where were we, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock looked less sure. He opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off. At the same time Jeff lunged at him, a bullet tore through two windows and the man's shoulder.

"Oh, shit!" Scottie jumped and slapped his hand at the laptop, attempting to cut the music off.

"...SO IF I SURVIVE, THEN I'LL SEE YOU TOMORROW! YEAH, I'LL SEE YOU TOMORROW! OH, MY LEGS ARE DANGLING OFF TH-"

Their ears rang in the silence that followed.

"...We should probably get the fuck out of here."

"Agreed."

The two teens didn't stick around. They ran all the way back down to the first floor and then set up camp in the front lobby of the next building over, waiting. After a few minutes, John came jogging by and shooed them out into a dark back alley just as a police car turned onto the street. They crouched together in the darkness for what seemed like an achingly long time.

"I'm having Amnesia: The Dark Descent flashbacks," Scottie whispered.

Emily put a hand on John's arm, making him twitch. "Are you okay?"

"What? Me? Yeah. Never better." John peeked around the dumpster they were hiding behind. "Okay. Okay, let's go look inconspicuous. Ready?"

The trio waited until the sidewalk was flooded with policemen and EMTs before they casually strolled around the yellow caution tape and came to stand as close to Sherlock's ambulance as was legal. Then they proceeded to pass around John's phone and take turns snapping pictures of Sherlock wrapped in an orange shock blanket, pouting.

"Oh, bless him," Scottie said. "Isn't he adorable?"

John laughed. "He looks about twelve years old sometimes, y'know? He's so... lanky. Pale. And excitable."

"And he's... what? In his thirties?" Emily asked. "Oh, yes. Adorable is a word that applies."

"Look at those cheekbones. No seriously, look at them."

"He has such pretty eyes. They never seem to be the same color!"

"What with all these flashing multi-colored lights around and such a perfect subject, God help me, these pictures are starting to look artistic."

John hummed. "He is kind of dishy, isn't he?"

Emily and Scottie pretended not to hear, but they secretly high fived when John started staring off into space.

"...I'm in shock," Sherlock shouted. "Look, I've got a blanket!"

"Sherlock," Lestrade shouted back, crossing his arms and trying to look stern.

"And I've just caught you a serial killer!" Sherlock glanced at the other ambulance, where he knew a dead body was lying. "Er, well. More or less."

Lestrade pulled Sherlock close by his lapels and muttered something to him, wagging his finger like an irritated parent. Sherlock nodded, Lestrade released him with a pat on his shoulder, and Sherlock made a beeline for John without looking back.

"Er," John said. "Just overheard Donovan explaining everything. Two pills? Dreadful business, isn't it? Just dreadful..."

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards. "Nice shot."

John sent him a bemused smile. "Ha. Yes, must have been... Through that window, was it?"

"You would know," Sherlock retorted. John's mouth tightened, he cleared his throat and looked away, and Sherlock touched the back of the soldier's hand. "You really need to get those powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but... let's avoid the court case." Sherlock's hand dropped. "John?" he asked lowly. "Are you alright? You are alright, aren't you?"

John glanced up at him. "Yes, of course I'm alright."

"We're fine too, thanks for asking," Scottie said.

"Are you sure, John?" Sherlock said. "You have just killed a man..."

"Yes, I'm-Well. That is true, isn't it?" John let out a breath and stood a little taller. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No," Sherlock mused. "No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly, a bloody awful cabbie," John mumbled.

"That's true, he was a bad cabbie," Sherlock laughed. "You should've seen the route he took to get us here..."

John seemed to explode with giggles. He clapped a hand over his mouth and turned to bury his face in the crook of his arm, trying to stop himself. Sherlock didn't bother holding back his mirth, and Scottie and Emily quickly decided that the joke was a lot less funny in real life.

"Stop," John chuckled breathlessly, slapping at Sherlock's arm. "We can't giggle, it's a crime scene. Stop it!"

"You're the one who shot him, don't blame me," Sherlock said with a grin.

"Shhh!" John giggled once more before putting a hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Would you keep your voice down? Sheesh." John caught Donovan staring at them like they were idiots. "Er, sorry, sorry," he said as he started to drag Sherlock away by the elbow. "Just, uh, it's just nerves, I think."

"Sorry," Sherlock repeated with a smirk.

They only continued giggling once they were at a safe distance.

"The phrase 'overgrown manchild' springs to mind," Emily observed calmly, jogging along behind them with Scottie.

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?" John asked with a tight smile.

"Wh-No! Of course I wasn't!" Sherlock sniffed and adjusted his scarf. "I was... biding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No, you didn't," Emily said and was ignored.

"That's how you get your kicks, isn't it?" John asked. He rounded on Sherlock at the end of the street and put a hand on his chest to stop him. Scottie almost smashed his face into the detective's shoulder blade. "You go about risking your life to... prove you're clever!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows innocently. "Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot," John said, scowling.

Sherlock just barely suppressed a smile. "Dinner?"

John grinned. "Starving."

"Down on Baker Street, there's a good Chinese restaurant that stays open until two," Sherlock offered. "You can always tell a good Chinese place by the bottom third of the door handle..."

"Are we allowed to come too?" Scottie asked petulantly.

Sherlock glanced back at him and sighed. "Oh, yes, fine. I suppose so." His lip twitched. "After what the two of you did today, I have-"

"Sherlock!" John gasped and ducked his head. "That's him, that's the man I was talking to you about!"

Everyone followed John's gaze to the nondescript black car parked on the other side of the street, a tall man in a suit with an umbrella climbing out of it. Sherlock's face twisted strangely.

"I know exactly who that is," he growled and started stalking straight toward the man.

Scottie made a strangled squealing noise, threw his arms around Emily, and forcibly dragged her along behind Sherlock. "I don't know if I should be excited or terrified," she said.

The man stepped forward to meet the detective. "So," he purred. "Another case cracked. How very... public-spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded.

The man hummed and inspected the tip of his umbrella. "As ever, I'm... concerned. About you."

Sherlock glared. "Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern.'"

"Always so aggressive," the man tutted. "Did it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

Sherlock put on an exaggerated thinking-very-hard face. "Hmm. Oddly enough, no."

"Oh goodness, he's both scarier and more attractive in person," Scottie mumbled against Emily's shoulder. "I feel faint. Catch me, Emily."

"You're a weirdo," she said. "Don't drool on my shirt."

The man looked Sherlock over disapprovingly. "We have more in common than you would like to believe, Sherlock. This petty feud between us is childish. People will suffer." He sniffed and examined his fingernails. "And you know how it always used to upset Mummy."

"Upset her? Me?" Sherlock snapped, readying himself for a fight. "It wasn't me who upset her, Mycroft!"

"No, wait," John said and held up a hand. "Mummy? Who is 'Mummy'?"

"Mother," Sherlock corrected with narrowed eyes. "Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft said with a tense smile.

"What? He's your brother?" John asked, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock glanced at him. "Well, of course he's my brother."

"His extremely handsome brother," Scottie said, sidling out from behind Emily. "Hello there."

John grabbed the teen and pulled him back with a scowl. "So... wait. You mean he's not-?"

"Not what?" Sherlock asked, brow furrowed.

"Um, I dunno. A criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft scoffed. "Oh, for goodness's sake! I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government," Sherlock said with an eyeroll. "When he's not too busy being the British secret service, or the CIA on a freelance basis... Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, will you? You know what it does for traffic." Sherlock pulled his coat around himself, turned with a dramatic twirl, and marched off in the direction of Baker Street.

"You're hot," Scottie said, and Emily threw her arms around his face.

"Scottie!" she gasped. "You do not talk to the British government like that!"

"So... when you say you're concerned about him," John said slowly. "You actually are concerned?"

Mycroft gave him a puzzled look. "Yes, of course."

"It actually is just a childish feud?"

Mycroft sighed. "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

John watched with a smile as Sherlock sauntered away. "Ha. Yeah... wait. No. God no." John turned back to Mycroft with a shake of his head. "I better, um..." He motioned after the detective awkwardly, and then he spotted Anthea leaning against the trunk of the car. "Oh. Hello again."

The woman barely looked up from her phone to give him a bemused smile. "Hello."

John paused, waiting for her to recognize him. "Er, yes. We met earlier this evening?"

She squinted at him and then gasped. "Ohhh!"

John winced. "Yes, yes, okay. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said with a smile.

John nodded, shoved his hands into his pockets, and slumped off after Sherlock. Emily and Scottie jogged to catch up with their new flatmates. "Well, we made it through the first episode," Emily said. "We're not dead yet. We haven't killed off any main characters."

"Barely," Scottie muttered. "We haven't destroyed the space-time continuum, so I guess that's something. I wonder if we'll disappear back to our old lives when this episode ends?"

"What about when the series ends?" Emily asked, and they glanced at each other.

"...yes, I can always predict the fortune cookies," Sherlock said with an amused smile.

"No you can't!" John laughed.

"Well, almost can," Sherlock admitted. "You did get shot, though?"

"Erm, sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound?"

"Oh, yeah!" John nodded. "In my shoulder."

"Hmm, shoulder. Thought so," Sherlock mused.

John gave him a look. "No, you didn't."

"Left one?"

John pouted. "Lucky guess."

Sherlock smirked. "I never guess."

"Yes, you do." John glanced at him and smiled. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock sighed with a grin.

John squinted at him. "What's a Moriarty?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Sherlock said, and turned the corner onto Baker Street.

The tension between Scottie and Emily rose steadily as the group made its way closer and closer to the Chinese place. Finally, just as Sherlock pushed open the door of the restaurant, Scottie exploded.

"Oh my GOD," he yelled. "WE STILL EXIST IN THIS DIMENSION I AM SO HAPPY." Everyone stopped to stare at him. "Sorry. I just really really really don't want to go poof."

There was a brief awkward silence, and then Sherlock said, "It might be a bit too late for that."

John stared at him. "Was that a joke?"

"No," Sherlock said, blinking back owlishly. He held the door open and half-bowed in a very gentlemanly fashion. John shook his head, amused, and walked inside. Scottie and Emily followed with Sherlock looming over them. "So," he drawled. "Moriarty. I know you know what that means."

"Yep," Emily said.

"And you aren't going to tell me."

"Nope."

Sherlock huffed. "Nothing at all?"

"Well... there is one thing," Scottie said. "The devil wears Westwood."

"And occasionally very gay underwear," Emily added.

Sherlock hummed. "Really? Fascinating. What will the two of you be ordering?"

And then Scottie tried Chinese food for the first time in his life.

* * *

"Sir, should we go now?" Anthea asked, motioning toward the car.

"Interesting, that soldier fellow," Mycroft mused. "He could be the making of my brother... or he could make him worse than ever. And as for those two children..."

"Sorry," Anthea said, glancing up from her phone distractedly. "What children, sir?"

"I am unsure who they are," Mycroft admitted sourly. "And it is disturbing me. Did you notice? They both seemed to... recognize me, especially the boy. 'Scottie,' was it?"

Anthea hummed and continued typing.

"Either way, we better upgrade their surveillance status," Mycroft sighed. "Grade three, active."

Anthea looked at him, confused. "Sorry sir, whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson... and the two teenagers living with them. Scottie and Emily, surnames and relations unknown. Possibly unstable."

Mycroft turned and got into the car, slamming the door behind him.


	2. The Blind Derpface

**EPISODE 2:**

**"THE BLIND DERPFACE"**

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Scottie and Emily may or may not be finished writing this one. Sorry for the inconvenience. (But please, don't be afraid to skip ahead in the story and keep checking back! If you have any questions/concerns/comments/bribes you can contact us through the comment section or message me directly.)

* * *

**PREVIEW~**

Nearly two months passed and, for better or for worse, little had changed for our heroes (or the lack thereof, as they'd done very little of any worth since the events of A Study in Pink). Unlike Scottie and Emily, apparently John needed to take some time easing into living with Sherlock before fully jumping into the swing of things. Things around the flat moved slowly now that there wasn't a case going on. John was currently looking for work and Sherlock didn't seem to have any trouble occupying himself with various experiments. During the downtime the teenagers decided to start looking at their stay from more of a tourist's viewpoint, checking out many of London's most famous landmarks and attractions firsthand. A single client came in asking for help with a missing diamond, but Sherlock turned down the case, deeming it 'too boring' to bother looking into. Scottie and Emily had then tried to solve the mystery themselves but ended up getting nowhere. Except perhaps very, very lost somewhere in the heart of the city.

To everyone's surprise Sherlock ended up finding his interest peaked in the children's willingness to help out. Even though they never did get any closer to finding that diamond and he didn't care enough to step in, afterwards Sherlock started sending them both on little missions and/or errands of his own. Once when they were being particularly annoying Sherlock got Scottie and Emily into trouble by having Lestrade catch them in possession of alcohol, while another time he charged the wannabe super sleuths with the task of decoding a mysterious message that had been left on his blog.

The morning following the notorious James Bond marathon started like any other for the young Americans. Emily woke up considerably earlier than Scottie, but in his defense, she had only made it through a grand total of two films before passing out. After getting dressed, brushing her hair and teeth, and then fooling around with makeup for a bit only to end up wiping it all off anyway, the girl finally got bored of waiting for Scottie to wake up leapt up onto his bed, shaking the entire thing. He groaned and squinted up at her.

"Morning sunshine," Emily beamed back.

Scottie scowled. "The fuck are you so excited about?"

Emily shrugged and retreated back to her own twin bed. Scottie rolled over with a grunt. "Hey Scottie?" Emily asked after a pause. He didn't answer, so she tried again: "Scottie? ...Scottie. Scottie. Skawdee. Scooter. Scurdur. Mr. Lewis. Lewis and Clark. Scottlate Moois. Beam me up, Scotty. Scotch tape. Scotland. F. Scott Fitzgerald-"

The boy finally sat upright and whipped his head around. "Jesus Christ woman, _what?_"

"I was just… I was just, y'know, thinking and. Well, we've been here for quite a while, haven't we?"

"Yeah. I suppose. But we're not even in the second episode yet, so..."

"Okay, but aren't you at least a little curious about how long this is going to last?" asked Emily. "I mean. Sure, things are going great, but like, are we talking wonderful fanfiction vacation that could abruptly end at any minute or trapped in an alternate universe forever?"

"You say 'trapped' like it's a bad thing." Having given up on getting back to sleep, Scottie climbed out of his bed with a yawn. His hair was sticking out every which-way, but he didn't seem very bothered by it just yet.

"Well. Not _bad_, necessarily. But don't you think it's a little scary? Not knowing why we're here or if we can even get back?" Scottie ignored her, and Emily raised an eyebrow. "Come on now. Don't tell me you honestly aren't homesick or anything."

"Um. No, not really?"

"Not even for your parents?"

"Nope."

"Your friends?"

"I like the ones I made here better."

"Pets?"

Scottie stopped and stared at her with wide eyes. His face twisted unattractively, he made a high-pitched whining noise, and his lower lip began to tremble.

"Ha!" Emily said, pointing. "See? You secretly want to go home just as much as I do!"

Scottie looked away, his vision blurred by unshed tears. "My babies," he whispered.

Emily shifted nervously. "Okay, stop that. Crying people make me uncomfortable."

"You're absolutely right," Scottie said with a quiet sniffle. "How far off track do you think it would throw the original plotline if we brought in a Gladstone?"

"Scottie. I'm being _serious_."

"So am I!"

Emily was getting annoyed now. She gave Scottie The Look, which usually signified he had said something that struck close to home and she wasn't having it. "Now see here," she started slowly, "I'm sorry if I can't say the same for you, but I have people who love and care about me waiting back home, and as… absolutely _phenomenal _as all this has been, the thought of never seeing them again is actually kind of terrifying. Not to mention there's our future to worry about - _my_ future. What about college? I was going to go to art school, you know. But. Well, I hardly see how that can happen if I stayed here."

Scottie rolled his eyes so hard they might as well have fallen out of their sockets. "Goddamn, Emily, if you're this miserable why don't you just _leave?_"

A look of anger flashed across the girl's face. "Leave?" she echoed. "Yeah. Perfect. Let me just hop on a plane back to California with all the money and the passport I don't have. And go where? _Home? _That's assuming I still have a home to go back to, or anything else, for that matter!"

"Why don't you bitch about it some more? I'm sure that'll help."

Suddenly Emily jumped off of the bed and came up to Scottie, grabbing the boy by his shirt collar and pulling him close. "Hey. Hey. Why don't you _shut the fuck up?_"

But Emily's slight difference in height and quick temper in no way intimidated Scottie, and he made a point of showing so by lifting a hand between the two of them and then used it to flick the end of her nose playfully. Emily, of course, saw this as an acceptable excuse to sock him in the face. She immediately regretted having done so - not because he didn't deserve it, but because no one had ever taught her to throw a proper punch and this resulted in her hurting her fist a lot more than she anticipated.

There wasn't nearly enough force put into the attack to cause any real damage, but still Scottie stumbled backwards. He wiped the back of his hand across his face unhappily.

"Alright then. If that's how it's gonna be, I _accept _your declaration of war."

Meanwhile, John struggled with several grocery bags up the stairs into 221B. He'd already gone to the store once and had to come back because of technical difficulties and was already in a more or less bad mood.

"Don't worry about me," the doctor said as he entered the flat, loudly and sarcastically. "I can manage."

Inside John noticed Sherlock hunched over the desk in the living room, hands folded over his mouth and a laptop in front of him. John dumped the groceries in the kitchen.

"Is that my computer?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"It's password protected."

"Of course," muttered the detective, starting to type.

"What?!"

"Mine was in the bedroom."

"What, and you couldn't be bothered to get up?" John looked as if it were taking all of his self control to keep from blowing up at the other man. "It's password protected!" he said again.

Sherlock kept on typing, unconcerned. "In a matter of speaking. Took me less than a minute to guess yours." He now glanced up at John for the first time since he'd returned. "Not exactly Fort-"

But the original line was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, who now came hurrying into the flat frantic and winded. "Oh, Sherlock! Come quickly!" she beckoned from the doorway. "The children are going at it!"

Sherlock and John exchanged glances. "I thought you said the boy was gay?" John hissed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Still figuring things out? I hear experimentation is very popular in the teenage years."

"Oh, Sherlock, please come!" Mrs. Hudson went on.

The was a loud thud from downstairs and a laugh that quickly turned into a scream. Without any hesitation Sherlock and John leapt to their feet and hurried down the flight of stairs with Mrs. Hudson leading the way. The door to 221C was still flung wide open as the landlady had left it, and the three of them ran through the vacant mess of a living room to the much better taken care of bedroom clearly contained all of the commotion.

"_Ouch!_" Scottie's voice rang out. "Why the _fuck _would you hit someone there, much less with a _throw pillow!_"

"Because fuck you, that's why!"

Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson came in to find Emily towering over Scottie with a pillow. Lying on the floor looking up, he threw up his arms defensively as she smacked him over the head with it multiple times in succession. Finally the boy saw an opportunity and kicked Emily in the stomach, knocking her backwards. Scottie snatched the pillow away and readied himself to take a swing at her. Emily was just starting to get up when she felt a pair of arms wrap around and restrain her.

"Hey!" Emily shouted, squirming about in John's tight grasp. "No fair!"

"Yeah, that's right!" Scottie said victoriously. "You hold her down for me!" He lifted the pillow and made to take a step forward but was pulled back by the collar of his shirt. He looked up to see Sherlock towering over him, amused. Scottie dropped the pillow. "Is... Is that not what we're doing?" he asked sheepishly.

Once they were finally able to diffuse the situation, all five of them went back to 221B, where Emily and Scottie were seated at opposite ends of the sofa and avoiding eye contact. Mrs. Hudson loomed over them, arms folded. "Now what do you two have to say for yourselves?" she asked sternly.

"Well I'm not sorry, if that's what you're getting at," Scottie grumbled.

"Typical Scottie," Emily glared. "Never willing to be the bigger person."

"Pretending like everything is okay between us isn't a solution!"

"Well I'm certainly not willing to compromise!"

"Emily! Scottie! _Enough!_" barked John, suddenly adapting his Soldier Voice. "Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I all have better things to do than sit around sorting out whatever childhood quarrel is going on here. We're not suggesting that you aren't allowed to get into disagreements, but is it _really_ worth driving the entire building up the wall with them?"

"Yes," came the guilty party's decisive answer. John groaned and buried his head in his hands.

"I need to go to the bank," Sherlock suddenly announced. The man got up and passed the others to get his coat.

"Wh-really? _Now?_" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"I'm not getting payed enough to babysit," retorted the consulting detective.

John frowned. "You're not getting payed at all."

"Precisely."

"Hold up, I'm coming with," John said.

"Are you planning on leaving me in charge of the two of them?" asked Mrs. Hudson in disbelief. "You know they won't listen to me!"

Scottie jumped up and hurried to John's side, suddenly realizing that this could be the start of the second episode. "Hey, I wanna come to!" the boy pleased.

John raised an eyebrow. "And what about Emily?"

"Like hell I'm going to stay here if_ he _gets to go."

John looked helplessly to Sherlock, who merely shrugged and continued out the door. He turned back to Emily and Scottie. "Alright, but _only if _you guys promise not to get into any more trouble, you hear?"

"Deal!"

_TO BE CONTINUED..._


	3. The Great Derp

**EPISODE 3:**

**THE GREAT DERP**

* * *

_Bang!_ _Bang!_

Two loud gunshots rang out, followed by a third and then a fourth. Index fingers pressed in his ears, John Watson scurried up the stairwell to find Sherlock seated in an armchair and firing his handgun at the defenseless wall.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" the army doctor screeched.

"Bored," Sherlock groaned half-heartedly.

"...What?"

"BORED! BORED!" Sherlock Holmes lept to his feet, firing the gun twice more. Scottie and Emily reached the top of the stairs just in time to see John confiscate and unload the weapon. "I don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes," Sherlock muttered. "It's a good job I'm not one of them."

"So you take it out on the wall?"

"Oh, the wall had it coming."

Knowing exactly at what point in the storyline they were, Scottie wiggled his eyebrows at Emily, who acknowledged the gesture with a sharp elbow to his side. Sherlock threw himself down across the couch and the two teenagers filed in, assuming that it was safe now that the flat was no longer being used as a shooting range.

"What about that Russian case?" John was saying.

Emily pulled her purse off from over her shoulder and tossed it onto the already cluttered coffee table. "Psst! Hey, Scottie!" she whispered.

"_What_?"

She joined him at the opposite end of the room, smiling deviously. "Have you ever played the 'penis game'?"

Scottie frowned. "What, you mean like where people would take turns saying the word 'penis' and gradually get louder until someone else in the room notices and throws a bitchfit over it?" Emily nodded slowly. "But why would we...?" Scottie sighed. "Penis," he muttered as softly as he could manage. This went on for some time and with each turn the two players allowed their voices to slowly transition from a barely audible whisper to an appropriate volume for ordinary indoor conversation.

"Anything in?" John called from the other room. "I'm starving."

"Penis."

He slammed the fridge door shut with a gagging sound.

"_Penis_."

"What was that?" Sherlock asked, looking up.

Emily pursed her lips together. "Nothing," she purred.

John didn't appear to have heard them yet. "A severed head!" he exclaimed, still in disbelief at what he'd just witnessed. The rest of the gang, however, remained almost disturbingly calm regarding this announcement.

Sherlock settled down once more. "Just tea for me, thanks."

"This isn't over yet," Emily insisted. "Penis!"

"There's a head in the fridge!" John stormed into the living room, his fists in tight balls. "A bloody head!"

"Well, where else was I supposed to-"

"PENIS!"

The entire room fell silent. Three sets of eyes fell on Scottie, who shuffled awkwardly where he stood. He hesitated for a moment, mouth slightly ajar. "I... um... I said... the pen... pen is... Y'know what, never mind. Don't worry about it." Emily pressed a finger over her lips in an attempt to stifle a giggle. Now it was Scottie's turn to elbow her in the side.

"If it is our attention you want you might have at least said something a bit more original," Sherlock said. "Like vagina."

John furrowed his brows for a moment and shook his head abruptly. "That's it - I've had enough of you three. Between their goofing off, and you with your... your _disembodied heads in the fridge_..." He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "Scottie and Emily. If you're that bored, might I suggest you play something nice and quiet? Cards, perhaps?"

They did so, just to humor the man. Once the two kids had taken over the majority of the floor space, there was a minute or so of silence before Sherlock spoke again.

"I see you've written up the taxi driver case."

"Yes," John said flatly, taking a seat in his armchair.

Sherlock looked back towards the ceiling. "_A Study in Pink_. Nice."

John shrugged. "Well. Pink lady, pink case, pink phone - there _was_a lot of pink." Beat. "Did you like it?"

As if going out of his way to irritate his flatmate, Sherlock held up a newspaper. "Ummm... no," he droned. The personal offense John took from this answer was evident across his face.

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

"Flattered?" Sherlock lowered the paper to shoot John a look. "_Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things._"

"Now, hang on a minute," John tried. "I didn't mean th-"

"BULLSHIT!"

The awkward silence returned. Emily let out an exasperated sigh and picked up the pile of cards. "Yeah, whatever. _Cheater_."

Scottie huffed. "I am not _cheating_. I have half the deck, same as you."

"Yes, because I told you that BS _does not work with only two_-"

"Sorry, are we interrupting something?" John snapped.

"Hey, you're the one who told us to play with cards," sassed Scottie.

John folded his arms across his chest. "Last time I checked, playing cards didn't involve shouting."

Emily tucked several long strands of hair behind her ear nonchalantly. She was lying across the floor on her stomach, ankles cross and dangling in the air. "Then you're playing the wrong kind of card games, mate."

John took a deep breath before jumping to his feet and darting for the door. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, looking up slightly.

"Out." John slid an arm through his coat sleeve and made for the stairs. "I need some air." He bumped into Mrs. Hudson on his way out, who apologized for the incident just before popping her head into 221B.

"Yoo-hoo," the older woman sang, knocking against the open door to be sure that she was welcome inside.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Scottie and Emily cried out happily. They both set down their respective stacks of cards and charged towards their landlady, throwing their arms around her in a tight hug. Mrs. Hudson laughed, patting Scottie on the top of his head. "Now, now," she went on, prying the teens off of her. "That's about enough of that. I just came to drop off a few things."

Mrs. Hudson disappeared into the kitchen. Sherlock sprang up and made for the window. Pushing its curtain aside, he watched the street below in silence.

"Now you kids be good and stay out of trouble," Mrs. Hudson warned, reentering the living room. She paused in the doorway and squinted. "Sherlock, dear, what have you done to my wall? I'm putting this on your rent, young man."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth rose into a slight smirk and Mrs. Hudson disappeared downstairs again. No one spoke. Finally breaking the uneasy silence, Scottie reached over and slapped Emily on the arm.

"Tag! You're it!"

The boy took off, but Emily was immediately on his trail. They circled the living room twice, Sherlock watching with a slightly concerned expression, before Emily tripped over an electrical cord and fell flat on her face. The lamp that it had been attached to came toppling down immediately afterwards, trapping the girl underneath. "You little shit!" Emily hissed, struggling to get up again. Scottie took advantage of her temporary delay and made a mad dash out the door, unable to contain a stream of maniacal laughter.

"I am the king of tag!" he announced loudly somewhere from the ground floor. "Bow down before me, pitiful mortals!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it," Emily threatened. She slid down the stair's railing and jumped off at the bottom.

Unfortunately, despite having already seen the original episode, neither one of them seemed to recall the explosion that was about to go off. Suddenly there was what sounded like an entire fireworks show going off all at once and the sound of glass shattering. The ground shook with the force of the explosion and Scottie and Emily were both thrown to the floor.

* * *

When John returned the following morning in a panic, he found Sherlock and his brother Mycroft seated facing one another and in the middle of a conversation as if nothing had even happened. Nearby, Scottie was taking advantage of the fact that John's computer didn't have a password and had just finished redoing John's blog so that it reflected his headcanons regarding Johnlock. He immediately slammed it shut upon the man's entrance and Mycroft glanced over his shoulder.

"John," Sherlock said.

"I saw it on the telly," John began explaining. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock looked surprised for a moment. "Me? What? Oh, yeah - fine. Gas leak, apparently." Leaning against the side of Sherlock's armchair and seated on the floor, Emily plucked away at Sherlock's violin in her lap. "Can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft repeated, spinning the closed umbrella that he had been holding in the palm of his hand.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time."

Mycroft grimaced. "Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance. And for the love of God, would you please stop that infernal _pizzicatoing_? I can hardly stand this dispute without having the theme to Pirates of the Caribbean plucked in the background!" Emily paused in what she had been doing, stuck her tongue out at Mycroft, and then went right on back.

"How's the diet?" Sherlock asked mockingly, successfully drawing the elder Holmes' attention back in.

"_Fine._ Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

"What?" John asked. He felt quite out of the loop, to be perfectly honest, but did his best to keep the others from noticing this.

"I'm afraid my brother can be intransigent."

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock leaned over the chair's arm and pulled his instrument away from Emily, who then made an obvious display of staged pouting. He strummed at a couple of open strings, checking that it was still in tune.

Mycroft shook his head. "No, no, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time, not with the Korean elections so..." Sherlock and John both met his eyes. "Well. You don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires... legwork."

Sherlock plucked another note and turned his attention to John, who seemed to be pacing back and forth across the floor space aimlessly. "How's Sarah, John?" the detective asked. "How was the lilo?"

Mycroft checked his pocket watch. "Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa."

"Oh yes, of course."

"How..." John shook his head and finally sat down on the couch. "Never mind."

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became... pals," Mycroft went on, recrossing his legs.

"Us too," Scottie finally chimed in.

"How could I forget. What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored," Scottie, Emily, and John all said at the same time.

"Good," Mycroft said, faking a smile to the best of his ability. "That's good, isn't it?"

Sherlock smacked Emily's hand with his violin bow. She pulled away again and frowned, her attempt to steal back the instrument from right under his very nose having failed. Mycroft stood up and handed a stack of papers to John. "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends, civil servant, found dead on the tracks of Battersea station this morning with his head bashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" John guessed.

"That seems the logical assumption."

"But?"

"But?" Mycroft echoed. Scottie and Emily each took a turn repeating the word 'but' after one another, attempting to make each sound more dramatic than the last.

"Ignore them," John instructed.

Mycroft gave him a tense smile. "Believe me, I'm _trying._ In any case, the MoD is working on a new missile defense system. The Bruce Partington Program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"'Memory stick'? You mean flash drive?" Emily wondered aloud.

"That wasn't very clever," John mused, flipping through the file he had been given. In the background Sherlock had begun rosining his bow.

"It wasn't the only copy."

"Oh?"

"But it's secret. And _missing_."

"Top secret?"

"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick and we can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands," Mycroft explained. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock... Don't make me order you."

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock's voice was flat and hostile.

"Think it over. Goodbye, John... kids." Mycroft nodded to Scottie and Emily, who waved back. John got up to shake Mycroft's hand before he took his leave. "Think it over."

Popping up from between Sherlock's legs, Emily snatched the violin and bow away. She immediately began to celebrate her victory by playing a cheery fiddle tune from The Lord of the Rings. Sherlock made a face but put no effort into standing up to retrieve the thing from her.

"Why'd you lie?" John asked, having to raise his voice to be heard over Emily's playing. "You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Moreover, why didn't you tell a single Fatcroft joke?" Scottie demanded, kicking his legs up onto the desk. "I gave you so many to work with last time!"

"Those were quite good," Sherlock admitted.

"Oh. Right." John nodded knowingly. "Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Emily held down the violin. "Is it just me, or is it always the younger sibling who insists on being a stubborn pain in the ass? No offense or anything."

"Don't pretend you don't miss her," Scottie said.

Emily threw her back against the flat's wall. "I do," she moaned. "I really do."

Sherlock was about to say something when his cell phone went off. He reached inside his jacket, answering it: "Sherlock Holmes... Of course. How could I refuse." The consulting detective shut the phone and put it in his pocket whilst in the process of standing. "Lestrade," he explained to anyone who cared. "I've been summoned. Coming?"

John was at his side in mere seconds. "If you want me to. Of course."

"I ship it," Scottie sighed dreamily.

"Oh, I _know_ you do." Emily rolled her eyes, hurrying to put Sherlock's violin back into its case. "Wait for us!" she called after Sherlock and John. She and Scottie then grabbed their jackets and hurried outside, shutting the door behind them.

* * *

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to wait out here," Lestrade told the two teenagers.

Scottie was practically fuming at this news. "Now listen here! We came all this way-"

"We weren't even in the cab for fifteen minutes," Emily reminded him coolly.

"-we came from less than fifteen minutes away and you won't even let us step _inside?_"

Lestrade crossed his arms. "You two aren't with the police. That being said, I can't let minors such as yourselves past this public area."

"But we're with _Sherlock_. He's like the entire Scotland Yard, minus the stupid!" Scottie folded his arms as well and straightened his back as much as possible in a poor attempt to look slightly taller than he really was. He clearly meant business.

"There's a hot chocolate machine just around the corner," John said before following the rest of the adults into the next room.

"Consider me sold," Emily announced, embarking on her latest quest for free hot chocolate. Scottie made a pissed off grunting noise before plopping into one of the lounge's seats.

"God damnit," he growled. "I really didn't expect everyone to be so prejudiced against young people over here. And you're no help, allowing yourself to be bribed with... with hot water and chocolate packets!"

"Hey, a girl's got needs!"

Luckily the others were only gone a matter of minutes. Emily had only just retrieved her drink when Sherlock, John, and Lestrade came flooding out again. "Oh, guess that's our cue," Scottie breathed and they both trailed the squad out.

* * *

They were back at Baker Street in no time at all. With hardly a word thrown in their direction, Scottie and Emily followed closely behind the other three as they approached the flat 221C.

"Now hold up," Emily gasped. "That's our flat! You don't mean that...?"

Scottie squeaked. "But would he really, even when he knows we're staying in there?" Sherlock glanced at Scottie and Emily suspiciously before pushing open the door.

"You said this one's yours?" Lestrade questioned, obvious disgust in his face. "It looks like this place has been abandoned for ages."

He had a point. The wallpaper was peeling, dark bits of what was probably mold stained the corners of the room, and there wasn't a single piece of furniture save a table, pushed against the wall and still covered in a thick layer of dust.

"In our defense," Emily started slowly, "we mostly just use the bedroom and kind of chill with Sherlock and John upstairs all day every day."

"What are you talking about? Our room isn't much better and we've been occupying it for months. You keep leaving all your shit on the floor unfolded, oh, and don't get me started on your 'organization tactics' in the bath-"

"_Scottie!_ Can we _not?_"

"Shoes."

The teenagers fell quiet as John stepped between them, drawing everyone's attention towards a single pair of running shoes that had been placed neatly together in the center of the room. Sherlock dropped to the ground and pressed his nose against the foreign object. Emily bit her lip and exchanged glances with Scottie. A cell phone ringer went off just then and the detective stood up again and pulled out the phone. It wasn't his phone. Rather, it looked exactly the same as Jennifer Wilson's from A Study in Pink. He stared at it for a moment before pressing a button to answer.

"Hello?"

Although hard to make out, the voice on the other line was a woman's, and she sounded as if she had just been crying. "Hello... sexy..." she choked.

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Who is this?"

"I've sent you a little puzzle just to say hi," the woman went on.

John, Lestrade, Emily, and Scottie held their breaths as Sherlock spoke on the phone. "Who's talking?" he asked slowly. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying. I'm typing and this stupid bitch is reading it out."

Lifting his head, Sherlock appeared to have just pieced something together. "The curtain rises," he mumbled softly.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"No, what do you mean?" he pressed.

"I've been expecting this for some time," Sherlock confessed. "Feel free to ask Scottie and Emily about it. I've a feeling they know more than they're letting on." Scottie gulped and Emily felt herself turning a flushed shade of pink.

"Twelve hours to solve my puzzle, Sherlock," the woman said over the phone, "or I'm going to be so naughty." The line went dead and an eerie silence filled 221C.

* * *

Although Scottie and Emily did, in fact, know the conclusion that Jim Moriarty had been trying to get Sherlock to come to, they ultimately decided against giving it away for the sake of continuity. At St. Bartholomew's, Scottie was just returning from using the restroom when he turned a corner and spotted Molly Hooper and Moriarty coming towards him. Scottie squeaked in alarm and pressed against the wall. He waited until they had turned the other way before making a mad dash to the laboratory where Sherlock, John, and Emily were hanging out.

"He's here!" Scottie screeched, flinging the doors open. Sherlock glanced up from what he had just been doing with the tennis shoe.

"Sorry? Who?" John answered.

"He's here he's here he's _here and he's coming this way_," Scottie rambled on, tugging at Emily's jacket sleeve.

"Who?" She pulled her arm away when a look of realization suddenly hit her. "...Shit. Shit, this is not good!"

"Not good? This is _great!_ I'm so excited to finally get to see his face in person!" Scottie bounced up and down several times before Emily held the boy in place and shushed him, worried that he would only make John and Sherlock more suspicious of them than they already were.

"Any luck?" a woman's voice called. Molly entered the room, practically gliding to Sherlock's side as if he were a magnet or something.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock smiled.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't..." A second newcomer hesitated in the doorway, but despite the clever disguise he wore, Scottie and Emily were far from fooled.

"Jim! Hi!" Molly breathed. "Come in, come in! Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty took his place beside Molly and slipped his hands into his front pockets sheepishly. "Oh, sorry! Um, this is..."

"John Watson. Hi."

"Yes, and their... adopted... kids? Uh, Scottie, and the girl is Emily, I believe." Scottie let out a dying whale noise and clung to Emily, who remained stiff and uneasy about being in the consulting criminal's presence for the first time.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty said. "Molly's told me all about-"

"HI SORRY TO BOTHER YOU SIR, BUT I'M SCOTTIE AND I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT IT'S AN HONOR TO FINALLY MEET THE GREAT JIM MO-"

Emily clasped a hand over Scottie's mouth and tackled him to the ground. "Stop it!" John scolded, pulling both kids apart and helping them to their feet again. "What's the matter with you two? You're always embarrassed me, especially in front of people you've only just met!"

"Oh, sorry," Moriarty muttered. "I can just go, if it's causing any sort of trouble?"

"Not at all," John promised. "Please, don't let these two scare you away."

"I can only imagine what it's like, having twins."

John's face fell. "They're not mine."

"Yes we are," Scottie and Emily insisted.

"Jim works in IT upstairs," Molly chimed in, attempting to bring the conversation back. "That's how we met. Office romance."

"Gay," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He peered into the microscope before him, displaying little interest in what was happening from the sides.

"Sorry, what?"

"Nothing. Um, hey." Sherlocked nodded awkwardly towards Moriarty, who smiled.

"Hi." The criminal mastermind who was currently pretending to be a derpy Sherlock Holmes fanboy suddenly bumped his hip into something and it knocked off the table so that it hit the floor with a crashing sound. Moriarty quickly apologized and began picking it all up again in a fluster. "Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, about 6-ish?" Moriarty touched Molly's back and looked back at Sherlock. "Bye. It was nice meeting you."

"THE PLEASURE'S ALL MINE!" Scottie exclaimed cheerily.

"Excuse him," Emily said, rolling her eyes. "He has... an odd tendency to blurt out inappropriate things when in contact with attractive British gentlemen at least twice his age."

Moriarty exited the room. "What do you mean, 'gay'?" Molly questioned as soon as the door had shut again. "We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"...Two and a half."

"Well, three."

John pursed his lips together. "Sherlock."

"He's not gay!" Molly spat, her voice rising. "Why do you have to spoil... He's not!"

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock mocked.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair?" John made a face. "_I_ put product in my hair."

"Case in point," Emily joked.

"You wash your hair," Sherlock went on, "there's a difference."

"No, no, I see where he's coming from," Scottie said rather matter-of-factly. "Tinted eyebrows, some kind of cream he uses on his frown lines, but it's mostly the underwear that gives it away. Quite visible above the waistline, if you ask me, and a recognizable brand. Never mind that he also left Sherlock his number underneath this here dish, because that's not suggestive at all, nope." Scottie pulled out the slip of paper and folded it in half. "I'll just... hold on this in case we..." Emily snatched the paper away, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash bin with a warning glance. "Or, y'know. Not. Whatever floats your boat, man."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "That was... quite good, actually. All valid points."

Without a word, Molly spun around and stormed out of the room. John sighed. "Charming. Well done, boys."

Sherlock turned in his seat. "Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder? No, no. Sherlock, _that_ wasn't kind."

Sherlock paused. "Emily," he finally said. Emily looked up, her eyes wide. Sherlock grabbed one of the sneakers by its side and slide it closer on the table. "Your turn. You know what I do; off you go."

Emily seemed flustered. "W-What, me? No, I, uh... JOHN! You should have John do it. His second opinion seems more valuable." When Sherlock didn't let her talk her way out of it, she picked up the thing by its laces and stared at it for a moment, trying to remember what John had concluded in the original episode. But nothing came to her. She put her best effort forth in the task nonetheless: "They're... I don't know, normal-looking shoes. Very... shoe-y, with the... bottom shoe bits and, of course, the top shoe bits too. Laces, tongue, sole..." She set the footwear down once more and gave a satisfactory nod. "Yup. I know a lot about shoes, Mr. Holmes, and I can tell you right now that this is definitely a shoe."

Sherlock took a deep breath, perhaps trying to decide if she was fucking with him or really that stupid. "Did you, I don't know, happen to notice the remnants of a name written in the tag? Perhaps?"

"Actually, now that you mention it..."

He picked up the shoe and turned it in his hands. "The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened where they got discolored, changed the laces three... no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema." He flipped them upside down. "The shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British made, 20 years old."

"20 years?" John repeated in slight disbelief.

Emily quite literally climbed up onto the counter to get a closer look. "But I was right," she pressed. "They are most definitely someone's old shoes, and I'm willing to bet whoever they used to belong to is long since dead."

Sherlock ignored her, quickly looking something up on his phone. "They're original, too. Limited edition, two blue stripes, 1989."

"But there's still mud on them. They look new," John said.

"Someone's kept them that way... Quite a bit of mud on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock gestured to the desktop. "Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too, so the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex 20 years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?"

Emily huffed. "Does no one care what I have to say? He's dead! Deceased! Pushing up the daisies! This... bomber fellow is involved somehow and he wants you to piece together how the murder was done."

"Carl Powers," Sherlock realized, straightening his back.

"Sorry, who?"

"Oh yeah, that's what the guy's name was," Scottie recalled. He strode over to Sherlock's unoccupied side to join in on the conversation. "Sherlock's first case. More or less. This guy was a champion swimmer from Brighton. One day he drowned and no one thought anything unusual of it, except for Sherlock here, because that's just kinda what he does. Went and made a big deal about the victim's shoes having gone missing. Unfortunately he was just a kid at the time and, well, no one really gave a shit about what he had to say. Gee, doesn't that sound strangely _familiar?_" Sherlock shot Scottie a distrustful look. "What?" he said defensively. "I've done my fair share of reading the papers."

"From the 80's?"

".._.shhh_."

* * *

Later that afternoon the scooby gang was back in 221B and hard at work piecing together Moriarty's puzzle. Or rather, Sherlock was. He had himself cooped up in the kitchen, leaving the others to twiddle their thumbs and stare at the bullet hole-filled wall in the living room. At some point John ordered pizza, as up until then they'd near forgotten about eating altogether, and Scottie and Emily proceeded to devour half the box by themselves in the amount of time that it had taken John to eat a single slice.

Finally John couldn't take it any more and slid open the kitchen door to check on Sherlock. "How can I help? I want to help. There's only five hours left." His back pocket rang and he pulled out a cell phone. "It's your brother. He's texting _me_ now. How does he know my...?"

"It must be a root canal," Sherlock muttered to himself.

"Look, he did say 'national importance'," John resumed, dropping his voice and stepping into the room.

By that point Scottie and Emily could no longer hear their conversation. Emily wiped excess pizza grease off of her fingers with a napkin as they waited patiently until John reentered. "And where are you off to?" she demanded.

"Paying Mycroft Holmes a visit. Don't worry, I'll only be a couple of hours."

Emily leapt to her feet, suddenly getting an idea. "Take us with you!" the girl pleaded. "Sherlock can handle things over here just fine by himself. Meanwhile, Scottie and I can help out with this whole missile crisis!"

John shook his head. "No, no, you'll just get in the way."

"Excuse?" Scottie hopped his way over to the others. "It'll just be Mycroft's super-secret British government headquarters. Nothing dangerous."

"And just how many times do we have to save your sorry asses before you figure it out that you're better off with us nearby?" Emily added. "I mean, take a look at The Blind Banker. We were around for that whole museum shootout scene and everything turned out absolutely fine."

John squinted at Emily. "Blind what?"

"Blind Banker. Y'know, the case involving the Chinese smugglers... Black Lotus, or whatever they called themselves... You called it that because of that one painting at the bank, remember? No? Doesn't sound familiar? Oh, joy. I appear to have gotten my storyline mixed up."

John reflected upon this idea for a moment. "The Blind Banker... I like it. Hey, you mind if I use that for the title of my next blog entry?"

"No, use it, please," Scottie urged. "That's just her way of suggesting it to you. Isn't that right?"

Emily nodded vigorously. "That being said, can we come with?"

"Oh, let me think about - _no_." John slammed the door shut behind himself, as if to make a point.

_Rude_, Emily mouthed. "This is going to be one hell of a long episode if we're not allowed to do much more than stand around in the background pretending not to know anything."

"Tell me about it," Scottie groaned in defeat. "But I mean, it's not like there's really anything we can _do_ to change that. Even if we told them the answers, Sherlock and John would a) not believe us or b) think that we're in league with Moriarty or something."

"Surprised they don't already. But hey, what if we could?"

"Could... what?"

"Do something to change that."

"I don't think I follow?"

Emily rolled her eyes and and pulled Scottie in by his elbow. "C'mon; I've got an idea, and it may or may not involve identity theft and a slight break in the fourth wall."

* * *

Just as it had happened in the episode, John returned a little later that night and Sherlock made a post on his website showing that he had solved the case. The next morning the detective and his blogger had gone back to Scotland Yard to debrief with Lestrade, where the teenagers knew they would receive a new challenge from an entirely different hostage. While John and Sherlock were out, Emily and Scottie broke into the doctor's unguarded room. Emily was busy digging through the older gentleman's closet while Scottie sat on his bed skeptically.

"So let me get this straight," he was saying. "You want to prove a point to Sherlock and John by parading around in their clothing and pretending to solve all these cases faster than them?"

"That's the general idea. I mean, think about it: we have the leg up. We know the answers before Moriarty has even asked their questions. Why shouldn't we take advantage of that?" She walked out of John's closet, wearing one of his infamous jumpers. "Moreover, why not take advantage of that and have a little _fun_ while doing it?"

"Because it would only spell out disaster and hilarity?"

"Exactly!" Emily checked herself out in the mirror for a moment before opening up one of John's drawers and finding a belt to fasten around her waist.

"No offense or anything, but I don't think John normally wears that as a dress," Scottie pointed out.

"And it also doesn't go halfway down his thighs when he puts it on. You got all your stuff?"

"Sherlock already left in his classic coat and scarf, but I managed to find his Purple Shirt of Sex," Scottie said, holding his arms out to the side for Emily to see. She nodded in satisfaction.

"Perfect. Now, they should be arriving at the crime scene within the next hour or so. Let's get going!"

"Yes, Ma'am!"

* * *

"Oh oh! I think that's them!" Scottie patted Emily on the leg to get her attention. His partner in crime shut her sketchbook and they both jumped off of the railing they had been seated on. "Quick, look like we're in the middle of doing Sherlock-y things!"

They did so. Scottie immediately began pacing back and forth across the concrete area and deducing things about the people and objects that he saw, most of which were entirely unrelated to the case at hand (and likely far from correct). Emily followed him from a couple steps behind, occasionally commenting on how brilliant and/or attractive he is.

"Oh, fancy running into you here," Scottie mused, approaching the car that the others had crowded around.

Sherlock, who had just been inspecting the blood-covered seat in the vehicle, straightened his back and looked from Scottie to Emily, eyebrows scrunched up in disapproval. "I thought you two said you'd stay back at the flat?"

"Boring." Although it's true that Scottie wasn't the best of actors, or even in the better half, he did get credit for refusing to break character. "'Sides, we heard about this most recent case and figured you might appreciate our help. How long was it you have, exactly? Only eight hours?"

"How could you possibly...?"

"We already spoke with Mrs. Mumferd," Emily piped up. It suddenly occurred to her that they had no good way of explaining how they had heard of the case in the first place, let alone arrived at that destination before the others. "Just. If you were planning on doing that. You're welcome."

"Monkford," Scottie corrected.

"Gesundheit."

"What's going on?" John had joined their circle now and looked as if he were having a difficult time deciding on whether to be confused or angry. "Scottie, Emily, wh... Is that my jumper?"

"What, this old thing?" Emily gave a little twirl. "I mean, I can give it back if you're that attached to it, but I'll have you know I didn't bring anything to change into."

"_But why are you wearing our clothes?_"

Emily smirked. "I thought it would be obvious. We're cosplaying - as you and Sherlock. Figured we'd be able to get your attention this way."

"Never mind about that," interrupted Scottie. "Mr. Monkford had been depressed for months. Forgot to renew the tax on his car, which is why he hired one. But that doesn't matter. The important bit is, Mrs. Monkford was quick to contradict and referred to her husband in past tense the entire time. Now, I'm not saying that she was directly involved his yet, but she knows something and isn't willing to tell."

Emily handed a slip of paper over to Sherlock. "Oh, and we found this in the glove compartment. I don't know, you might find it useful."

"How did they even let you into the crime scene, again?" John demanded.

"Janus Cars," Sherlock said, looking at the clue. He looked up at John. "Come on. They managed to find their way here on their own, undoubtedly they can make it back the same way."

Scottie and Emily watched confidently as John and Sherlock's figures grew smaller in the distance. "Well done, my dear genderbent Watson," Scottie finally laughed out loud.

"What are you talking about? That was all you. I couldn't even remember the woman's name right!"

They began to file out in the opposite direction. "Don't worry about it. John's mostly just there to look cute anyway."

"So where to now? This is fun."

* * *

"Well, fancy of you lot to show up," Lestrade grunted, folding his arms. "I was beginning to worry that you'd only sent your interns instead. So, is this true? Mr. Monkford's in Colombia now and not actually dead?"

Sherlock and John froze dead in their tracks. "How did you find that out?"

Lestrade seemed confused. "Scottie and Emily. Isn't that why you had them come?"

"Yes... of course," Sherlock answered slowly. The troublemakers stood at Lestrade's side, beaming back at him obnoxiously. "It was the blood that gave it away-"

"Half a pint exactly," Scottie confirmed. "Janus Cars' first mistake. It was... only too obvious that it had been collected and then frozen to make it look as if he had been murdered, providing the perfect opportunity for Monkford to get away."

"Bankers," Emily sighed. "Always such theatrics when it comes to money troubles. Wouldn't you agree?"

"That's... that's impossible..." John stammered. "They didn't even come to the car place with us! What are you playing at?"

"They're right, though," admitted Sherlock. "Mr. Ewart of Janus Cars had a 20,000 Colombian peso note in his wallet, and quite a bit of change, too. He told he us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm..."

"His arm?" Lestrade echoed.

"He kept scratching it, obviously irritating him and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab, Hep B, probably. Difficult to tell at a difference. Conclusion-"

"He'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs. Monkford cashed in the paperwork for life insurance and split it with Janus Cars." Scottie let out a yawn. "I thought we established this bit already?"

"Mrs. Monkford?"

"Oh yes, she's in on it too." Sherlock looked to Lestrade expectantly. He was clearly playing along and had no idea how the kids had been able to come to the same conclusion as him without having been around at all, but props to him for not questioning it. "Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best. We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved."

He and John took their leave down the long hallway without waiting for the others to catch up. Lestrade stared after them for a moment before shaking his head, saying goodbye to Emily and Scottie, and then heading in the opposite direction.

"Wait wait wait," Scottie gasped. "He didn't say it! Why didn't he say it?"

"Say what?"

"The 'I'm on fire' line!"

"Huh. You're right." Emily bit the bottom of her lip thoughtfully. "I don't know, think we stepped on his ego a bit?"

* * *

The four of them went out to breakfast the following morning. It was a cute little cafe a couple blocks down from Baker Street. Sherlock and John were seated across from one another, Scottie and Emily taking up the remaining chairs and dividing a stack of pancakes amongst themselves. Sherlock was the only one who hadn't ordered a single thing for himself, but the others were quite used to this behavior on his part. He didn't eat much in general, but even less so while in the middle of a case.

"Let's play Fuck, Marry, Kill!" Emily suddenly suggested, sliding her plate away once she'd finished giving Scottie his share. She quite liked that for the most part pancakes there closer resembled crepes than back home.

"Yeah!" seconded Scottie.

John put down his coffee mug. "We aren't playing Shag, Marry, Kill."

"What? Why not?"

"Because," John explained, "someone's feelings always end up hurt. And even if you don't use real people it's still cruel."

Emily pouted. "We promise we won't let our feelings get hurt…"

"He's probably just embarrassed about admitting to suppressed desired with answers about us," whispered Scottie, intentionally loud enough for everyone at the table to hear.

Sherlock continued to zone out of the conversation, probably still thinking about the whole Moriarty situation. The detective's eyes shifted to the pink phone that was lying face up in the middle of the table. John, on the other hand, wasn't so easily above Scottie and Emily's childish games.

"_Fine,_" the doctor gave in. "Shag Emily, marry Sherlock, kill Scottie. Happy?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped up again but still he said nothing. Emily pursed her lips into a smile and kept eating. Scottie took a sip from his cup and then slammed it down on the table forcefully.

"Wow, okay, asshole. Two can play at this game: fuck Sherlock, marry Emily, kill _John._"

"Mine would probably be… fuck Sherlock, marry John, and kill Scottie." Emily smiled guiltily at Scottie from across the time. "Sorry Scottie."

Scottie slouched his back into his seat. "Seriously? You'd rather sleep with men old enough to be your father than let me live?"

Emily shrugged. "Wouldn't you, given those circumstances?"

"Okay, yeah, but I have a gender preference so…"

"See, this is why I didn't want to play," sighed John. "It isn't fun and everyone involved ends up offended."

"I still want to hear Sherlock's answer," commented Emily. "And _then_ I promise we can stop."

"Oh yeah! Sherlock, tell us yours!"

Sherlock made a face. Evidently the man didn't appreciate having been pushed to participate. "How about no," Sherlock replied flatly.

"Aw, come on!" begged Scottie. "Pleaseeee?"

"Marry John, shag John, kill no one," Sherlock said quickly, looking away. John, who had been in the midst of sipping at his mug, suddenly choked at this and very nearly spit the drink all over the table.

"That isn't how the game works…" Emily reminded him.

"Good. Because I refuse to play."

Emily huffed. "Then I refuse to check on your dumb mold cultures while you're out."

The girl had quite possibly struck a nerve on that one, because Sherlock narrowed his eyes and revised his previous statement to "Marry John, shag John, kill Emily."

"Don't I get a verb?" asked Scottie. "You can't have John on there twice, y'know."

"Do science with Scottie?" Sherlock tried. Scottie nodded at this approvingly.

Emily shook her head. "Whatever. Round 2: Lestrade, Anderson, Mycroft. 1 2 3 go!"

"Fuck Lestrade," Scottie and Emily both said almost immediately.

"I thought you said this would be over after Sherlock answered," John pointed out.

Sherlock held up a finger. "Question: can I kill at least two of them?"

"Do we need to review the rules of this with you, or…"

"Also why are these all male? Don't you think that's a little immature?"

"No one gives a shit except for you," Emily sang, licking at her fork.

John rolled his eyes and took a bite from his own plate before continuing. "Christ, we've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started," he transitioned. "Has it occurred to you-"

"Probably."

"-has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into Scottie and Emily's flat, the dead kid's shoes. It's all meant for you."

"Yes. I know."

John put down his fork. "Is it him then? Moriarty?"

"Mm, that's a good one too," Scottie nodded. "Add him to the list."

"Man, fuck Moriarty. Fuck Moriarty, but like, _fuck_ Moriarty. You feel me?"

Both John and Sherlock turned their heads to the children with suspicion. Emily and Scottie both immediately occupied themselves with sipping at the remainder of their water glasses with straws. But before any questions could arise out of this there was a loud beep that came from the pink phone. Sherlock unlocked it to see that it had just received a text: a picture of blond woman, followed by three beeps. "That could be anybody," he said.

"It could be. Yeah." John fidgeted with his jacket some. "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

Sherlock squinted. "How do you mean?"

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly." Standing up, John retrieved a remote from the cafe's counter and turned on the TV.

Scottie leaned over the table. "I don't know about you," he whispered to Emily, "but I'm beginning to question John's masculinity."

His friend pulled a strawberry off from the top of her french toast and ate it. "He isn't kidding about watching a lot of TV. Just last week I got him to sit through a season and a half of Supernatural."

While they were talking, the pink phone rang. Sherlock reached for it but Emily swiped it first from next to him. "Hello?" Beat. "Oh. It's for you."

She held it out to Sherlock, who swiped the thing away and held it to his ear. "Hello?" There was a pause as he listened to the person on the other line, but unlike in the show, they couldn't hear the other voice. "Why are you doing this?" John watched Sherlock intently during this time. Sherlock shook his head at him, hung up, and then turned his attention to the TV hanging on the wall somewhere behind them.

"Hey, d'you think they'd let me keep that?" Emily asked, leaning closer to Scottie.

The boy raised an eyebrow. "What? The pink phone?"

"Sure. It's nicer than the piece of crap I use and as long as Moriarty continues to pay the phone bill…"

Scottie rolled his eyes and sipped at an icy glass of water. "You're a little shit and you know it."

On the screen, the blond woman was still being shown. A caption read _Make-Over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48 _as a reporter's voice explained that she had been found two days ago by her brother in their house in Hampstead. Sherlock was up and out the door before the others even had a chance to finish their breakfasts.

* * *

"I don't understand," Scottie was saying. "I thought you said you wanted to solve all the cases before them to prove a point?"

"And we have proved it. Sherlock knows what we're capable of on our own - the way you knew about the whole Carl Powers thing, and how we beat them to Lestrade with their same conclusion. Any more than that and we're going to start looking like the bomber ourselves."

Scottie jumped in front of Emily, cutting her off. "Bullshit. You just don't want to go in there and see the lady's dead body."

"Corpses are icky!" she wailed. "I've seen more than enough corpses since I got here. The excitement of it all has started to wear off. Besides, they're just gonna take a look at her, try to determine an unusual cause of death, and..." Emily trailed off, staring somewhere behind Scottie.

"And...?"

Emily blinked. "Oh! Nothing, I just... Doesn't that look a lot like Willow?"

Turning to see where Emily was pointing, Scottie became aware of another girl about their age headed in their direction down the sidewalk. Spotting them, she stopped abruptly and looked up before spinning around again and continuing back the way she came. "I think that is Willow!" Scottie exclaimed, chasing after her. "Willow! _Willow_!"

For the first time Willow fell victim to a real-life glomping by not one, but two people she had previously only met on the other end of a computer screen. "It is you!" Emily squealed excitedly. "I can't believe I'm finally getting getting to meet another AANer!" She let go, as if suddenly remember that her internet friend still needed oxygen to function properly. "But, I don't understand. What are you doing here?"

Willow struggled for words. "I... It's a long story, to perfectly honest, but I'm so happy to finally see you two in person! You look great! Except... I don't know, I kind of expected you both to be a little... well, taller, I guess? Especially you, Scottie. Emily's got a good couple of inches on you."

Scottie frowned. Willow was a good head taller than the both of them. "Well excuuuse me, Miss Friendly Giant!"

"So now do you believe us about this whole 'being stuck in the Sherlock universe' ordeal?"

"I still don't know how you shits did it, but I always believed you," Willow said.

"Hold up!" Scottie interrupted. "We were talking with you on Tinychat just last night! You couldn't possibly have been back in the States one night and then the next morning woken up in a shady hotel room in the middle of London, unless... _you went to bed back home one night and woke up in a shady hotel room in the middle of London the next morning_, just like us! Oh, this is great news!" Scottie clung to Willow again.

Willow smiled weakly and shoved him off of her. "Yeah, yeah. Something like that. Now calm your tits before I have to file a restraining order against you two."

"Oh, just wait until you meet Sherlock and John! You're going to love them! I bet you can even stay with us in 221C, too. I'm sure they won't mind. Then we can solve cases together and who knows, if we're here and you're here, maybe the rest of And Another Note will show up at some point and-"

Scottie stopped when he heard his and Emily's names being called. The both of them looked up to see their group exiting the building. John waved his arm, signalling to them to come along. But when they looked back, Willow was gone.

"W-What?" Emily stammered. "I don't understand. She was literally just here! We... did see her, right? We're not going crazy?"

Scottie shrugged. "Maybe she just needs some time to settle in? The good news is, we now know she's here and knows our address if she wants to come find us again."

"I don't like this," Emily admitted, starting to walk towards Sherlock, John, and Lestrade again. "There was just something... I don't know, _off_ about her. And then the way she just went and disappeared like that."

"You're absolutely right. She knows too much." Scottie squinted his eyes with a look of determination. "We should kill her."

Emily smacked him square in the chest with the back of her hand. "Quit fucking around and take this seriously! I just… I don't know. It's like my spidey senses are tingling, you feel?"

"That doesn't sound right."

"Shush. I just get this weird feeling that we can't trust her. I can't explain it."

"Well, no wonder she left. You're just gonna go around shouting out uncalled for accusations like that..."

"Oh, piss off!"

* * *

Back in 221B, Sherlock had plastered pictures of Connie Prince and other various bits and pieces of information regarding the previous two cases up on the wall. John and Emily had split off from the group, going to the house in Hampstead to investigate. Meanwhile Sherlock paced back and forth across the flat, hands pressed together as Lestrade watched impatiently.

"Connection, connection..." he was mumbling. "There's got to be a connection! Carl Powers, killed 20 years ago. The bomber knew him, _admitted _that he knew him! The bomber's iPhone was in the stationary from the Czech Republic. The first hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent." Sherlock flailed his arms about in irritation. "What's he doing? Working his way around the world? Showing off?"

Sherlock's phone rang again. This time he put it on speakerphone so that Lestrade could hear as well.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" an older woman's voice asked. "Joining the dots? Three hours. Boom... boom." The phone cut to a dial tone and Sherlock hung up.

"Well that wasn't morbid at all," Scottie said from where he had melted himself into the couch.

Mrs. Hudson let herself in several minutes later and Sherlock went to take a call at the other end of the living room. "It's a real shame," the landlady sighed, scanning her eyes across the wall sadly. "I liked her. She taught you how to do your colors."

Lestrade looked down at her, an eyebrow raised. "Colors?"

"You know! What goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me." Scottie wrinkled his nose at the thought of Mrs. Hudson in as atrocious a shade of pink as that.

"Who's that?" Lestrade asked Sherlock when he rejoined them.

"Home Office."

"Home Office?"

"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favor."

Mrs. Hudson kept her eyes fixed on the makeshift board. "A pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They all do these days. People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it? Did you ever see her show?"

"Not until now," Lestrade shook his head.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together, smiling. He fetched his laptop from the table somewhere behind him and opened it up to play a video.

"That's the brother," Mrs. Hudson explained, leaning over to see. "No lost love there, if you can believe the papers."

"So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who love this show. Fan sites, indispensable for gossip..." Sherlock informed her. Scottie, clearly bored out of his mind, let out an exasperated sigh and flopped off of the furniture and onto the floor. "Sorry, is there some place you'd rather be?"

"You've _no_ idea."

* * *

Emily wasn't getting a lot of anything done herself, either. She'd mostly resorted to taking up an armchair in Kenny Prince's living room and stroking his cat, which closer resembled a hairless rat than a feline, if we're being perfectly honest here. Connie's brother Kenny sat down beside John on a nearby couch, crossing his legs and ultimately making him feel extremely uncomfortable.

"I don't know what I'm going to do now," Kenny said.

"Right."

"I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely... but it's not the same without her."

John made a face, leaning back. "T-That's why my paper wanted to get the full story. Straight from the, uh, the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?"

"No!"

"Right."

"You fire away."

Emily tried to keep from throwing up in her mouth. Things went on like this for some time more after John quickly phoned Sherlock to tell him about his newest lead. Although she knew the man was barking up the wrong tree, Emily said nothing and continued to play with the cat... thing until there was a knock at the door.

"That'll be him," John said.

Kenny looked up from fixing his hair in a mirror. "What?"

"Ah, Mr. Prince, is it?" Sherlock strode into the room, reaching out to shake Kenny's hand.

"Yes?"

"Very good to meet you."

"Thank you."

Sherlock didn't stop shaking the gentleman's hand. "So sorry to hear about-"

"Yes, yes, very kind. Shall we, uh..."

Sherlock let go then and leaned in close to John. "You were right; the bacteria got into her another way."

"Oh, yes?"

"Yes."

"Right, we all set?" Kenny clasped his hands together in anticipation before posing by the fireplace.

"Draw me like one of your French girls," Emily said from beside John. Without looking he attempted to put an arm on her shoulder while shushing her, but missed and ended up touching the girl's face. Emily licked it and he pulled away in disgust.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had begun snapping pictures like rapidfire. "Not too close," Kenny instructed. "I'm raw from crying." This request was, of course, completely and utterly ignored.

The naked cat yowled and rubbed up against Sherlock's leg. "Oh? Who's this?"

"Sehkmet. Named after the Egyptian goddess."

"How nice. Was she... Connie's?"

"Yes. Little present from yours truly." Kenny bent down to pick up the hairless animal.

"Sherlock, ah, light reading?" John asked.

"Oh, uh..." Sherlock frowned down at the bulky camera in his hands. He proceeded to flash it directly into Kenny Prince's face several times more.

Kenny blinked and jerked about, shouting, "Bloody hell, why are you looking there?"

"Sorry!"

"You're like Laurel and bloody Hardy, you two! What's going on?"

John nodded his head towards the door. "Actually, I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us."

"What?"

"Sherlock! Emily!"

"_What?_"

"We've got deadlines."

Sherlock and Emily scurried after him. Kenny stared after them in surprise and anger. "But you've not taken anything!"

Just outside, they were rejoined by Scottie, who had been waiting patiently alongside the exterior of the house. And by that I mean hiding in the bushes and waiting to pop out and them. As soon as Emily came around the corner from the front porch, he reached out and grabbed her ankle. Emily shrieked and instinctively kicked him in the face.

"_Ouch!_" Scottie yelped, picking himself up again.

"Serves you right, giving me a heart attack like that."

"It's a good thing we were transported into the Sherlock verse rather than Amnesia's. You'd get us both killed trying to fight back."

"Yes, oh, yes!" John was saying from several feet ahead of them. He laughed out loud.

Sherlock raised a skeptical eyebrow. "You thought it was the _cat_? It wasn't the cat."

"Wh... Yes, it is! It must be! That's how he got the tetanus into her system. Its paws stink of disinfectant."

"Lovely idea." Sherlock looked as if he were trying not to laugh himself.

"He coated it onto the claws of the cat," he explained. "New pet. Bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have..."

"It's alright, John," Scottie said, patting the doctor on his back reassuringly. "We can't all be genius detectives."

John made a face. "Oh, and I don't suppose _you_ have any bright ideas?"

"As a matter of fact, I do! You're assuming Mr. Prince murdered his sister for her money, am I right or am I right? Of course I am; I'm always right." Scottie paused, checking to make sure that the others were paying attention to him. "Well, isn't it obvious? It was revenge! By Raoul! There was this whole campaigning dispute between the two of them - I don't remember the specifics, but you can ask Sherlock, he actually read the articles online - anyway, Connie threatened to disinherit Kenny and-"

"Wait, wait, wait a second!" John stepped in front of Sherlock and John, causing them to stop walking. Emily was a little late on the uptake collided into Sherlock's backside. "What about the disinfectant, then? On the cat's claws?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life. _You_ smell of disinfectant!" Emily sniffed her own hands at this observation. "No, the cat doesn't come into it. Raoul's internet records do, though. I hope we can get a cab from here," Sherlock said, mostly to himself. He then continued walking down the very middle of the street while John remained where he stood, likely trying to keep from feeling too embarrassed.

Scottie patted his arm again on his way past. "Next time," he cooed.

* * *

The following morning, Sherlock and John were seating in their respective armchairs whilst watching the news on TV. The newscaster was going on about how twelve people were killed in a gas explosion.

"Old block of flats," John muttered over his shoulder at Sherlock. "_He _certainly gets about."

"Well, obviously I lost that round - although technically I did solve the case." Sherlock picked up the remote control and muted it. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

John frowned. "What d'you mean?"

"What's there not to get?" Emily laughed. She walked into the room from the kitchen carrying a can of soda and settled down on the opposite end of the couch from Scottie. "This bomber fellow, whoever he might be and whom I'm absolutely positive not a single one of us has ever encountered before," she gave Scottie a warning glance as she said this, "is kind of like a crime spree prostitute."

"A _what?_" John choked.

"Criminal for hire," clarified Scottie.

"Say, are you two planning on adopting a puppy anytime soon?" Emily asked, sipping at her drink. "Because honestly I've been waiting years for that one and I still can't believe it hasn't happened yet."

"Casual reminder that we haven't _technically_ known them for a full year."

Sherlock watched the pink phone that was seated beside him intently. "Taking his time this time." The cellphone went off just then, and Sherlock pursed his lips into a thin smile. "Speak of the devil." John leaned forward and watched intently as the other man flipped in open. Sherlock's face fell. "_Your dragons have finished mating,_" he read.

"Oh! That notification's for me!" Emily let out, jumping to her feet.

Scottie raised an eyebrow at the girl. "When the hell did you have time to install minigame apps onto crucial evidence?"

Giving Emily a judgemental glare, Sherlock closed the notification and set the thing down again. Emily continued to stand awkwardly for another couple seconds before sinking back down onto the couch. There was a brief pause and John looked back towards the muted TV set. "Anything on the Carl Powers case?"

"Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection."

"Good God, this scene sucks!" Scottie finally blurted out. "I keep forgetting how boring everything is between cases."

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" John went on, ignoring the boy.

"The thought had occurred."

"So why's he doing this, then - playing this game with you? D'you think he wants to be caught?"

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth and smiled slightly. "I think he wants to be distracted."

John laughed humorlessly just before getting out of his seat and making towards the kitchen. "I hope you'll be very happy together."

"Oh!" Emily waved her empty soda can in the air as if showing off the fact that it was now empty. "While you're already up, mind fetching me another one of these?"

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock shot back over the girl.

His temper rising, John turned back and leaned his hands on the back of the chair. "There are lives at stake, Sherlock!" he hissed. "Actual _human_ lives… Just - just so I know, do you care about that at-" The man was cut off when the aluminum can that had just chucked made contact and bounced off of the side of his face. "What the _bloody hell_ is wrong with you?!" he spat, whirling around.

Emily and Scottie both threw an accusatory finger at one another. "Caring won't get me another soda," Emily whispered. Scottie tried his best to hold back laughter.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." There was a long and tense silence between the four people in the room and then the pink phone received a text, signified by the Kim Possible message tone. Scottie raised an eyebrow at Emily, who grinned guiltily."Excellent!" breathed Sherlock, picking it up. There was a quick beeping noise and a picture that only Sherlock could see."View of the Thames. South Bank - somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers, I'll look online," he said, reaching for his own phone. He glanced up again at John. "Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help." John shrugged. "Not much cop, this caring lark."

Emily huffed. "Man, y'all are useless. I guess I'll just go get one myself." She stood up and pushed past John.

"And I'll… casually go back to reading fanfiction, I guess," Scottie mumbled half to himself. "If anyone cares. No? Okay."

John scanned his eyes over a newspaper. "Archway suicide," he said.

"Ten a penny," snapped Sherlock.

"Two kids stabbed in Stoke Newington."

"Oh my god, this one is like Smaug has the personality of Martin Crieff and he's all insecure and trying to convince Bilbo that he's a terrifying dragon and oh my god this is great," Scottie wheezed. "_Are half of these even for real?"_

There was an exaggerated gasp from in front of the fridge. "_How could that have been the last one?"_

John moved along to the next paper. "Ah," he began, "man found on the train line - Andrew West."

Sherlock gave his phone a judgemental look. "Nothing!"

"Wait wait wait, I've got something!" Scottie exclaimed, sitting upright. Both Sherlock and John stopped what they were doing and looked over at him. "Emily, come quick!" he went on. "This one's a crossover between Star Trek and…" he stopped, glancing up. "Oh hello everyone."

Sherlock shook his head and began making a call: "It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

* * *

Apparently Lestrade had, and the group joined him beside a river less than an hour later. They were standing over a man's body and currently discussing whether or not this event was connected to the mysterious bomber.

"Any ideas?" pressed the Detective Inspector.

"Seven… so far…"

"_Seven?_"

Sherlock and John dance around each other inspecting the corpse. Emily began tapping her foot impatiently while Scottie pulled back a sleeve to glance impatiently at his watchless wrist. "He's been dead for about twenty four hours," John finally piped up. "Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?"

"Apparently not," Lestrade commented. "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

Emily nudged Scottie with her elbow. "Hey, I'm bored out of my fucking mind here. It's like being Richard Castle minus the witty theories and sexual tension."

Scottie blinked. "I didn't understand that reference but go on."

"Do you want to, I don't know, go see a movie or something?" The girl dropped her voice to a near whisper as to not be heard over the crime scene-related discussion still going on nearby. "They obviously don't need us here, not to mention I have little to no faith in our combined ability to take on the Golem creature."

Scottie squinted. "Since when have you been so worried about getting someone hurt by being in the way?"

"Oh, I don't know, since we _nearly got shot full of bullet holes in a museum?_ We aren't invincible, you know."

"Touche."

* * *

Scottie and Emily successfully avoided causing any unnecessary trouble in seeing that movie, and despite it not even being that good of a film, for the first time in a long time the couple of teenagers wandered the streets of London together, taking in the sights like overexcited tourists. They laughed at and cheered for street performers, took a stroll through the park, and got kicked out of a pub for being underage. It was nearly 2 AM when the kids made it back to Baker Street with sore feet and the last of John's stolen pocket money spent. It was then that they realized they hadn't brought along a copy of the apartment key, but luckily their excessive banging was enough to wake Mrs. Hudson, who unhappily helped them into their own flat. They overslept the following morning, and as such ended up missing Sherlock and John's departure for the art gallery.

"How could we let this happen!" Scottie wailed, throwing himself back down upon his bed face first.

Emily sat at the edge of her own bed painting her toenails. "Hey, I've been up since ten," the girl said in defense of herself.

Scottie lifted his eyes to glare at her. "Yeah, that's because you crashed the second we go back, whereas I stayed up to check in with And Another Note."

"It was like, midday then. Weren't they all in school?"

"It had already ended for some of them," answered Scottie. "Various US time zones and all that fun stuff."

"Was Willow on?"

"No."

"Weird. I wonder what's going on with her. I mean, I don't _think _that was a shared delusion we experienced the other day, and so of course I'm worried about her and how she's holding up. I don't know. There's just something fishy about the whole thing and I don't like it. But that being said, there isn't really anything we can be expected to do about it until she ever decides to pop up again." Emily shrugged. "Anyway, we aren't missing much by staying here. If they're on the art gallery case right now, shouldn't they just be proving that that Vermeer is a fake?"

"Yeah, and then wrapping up the case John has been working on for Mycroft," Scottie whined. "I can't decide which is worse: getting dragged along on all the boring bits of the detective work or being left behind on all of them!" Scottie jolted upright with a gasp, startling Emily so that her hand jerked to the side and nail polish across the side of her face. She shot Scottie a dagger-like glare, which he seemed not to notice in his own excitement. "The pool scene happens tonight, too!"

Their conversation was cut off when Mrs. Hudson let herself into the room carrying a tray with two homemade sandwiches. "You two are just like Sherlock," the older woman sighed. "Always so wrapped up in your own affairs and forgetting to take care of yourselves in the process. It's past noon and the two of you haven't even eaten breakfast yet! Aren't you starving?"

"Oh, positively ravished," Emily let out, reaching for one of the sandwiches.

Mrs. Hudson handed the second one to Scottie who took it happily. "Now what do you say, dears?"

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson!" they both exclaimed through full mouths.

"Now you kids keep out of trouble, you hear?" Their landlady half-smiled, shaking her head. They promised to do so (with very little intentions to keep said promise) and waited until the woman had disappeared into the hall again before picking up their talk.

"I just don't see how it's going to work out," Emily said, taking another bite. "Sherlock sure as hell isn't going to let us come with, and if we hang out with John instead, what if we end up strapped to bombs of our own?"

Scottie wrinkled his nose. "For all you know sitting around here will end up getting us grabbed instead of John. _Again_. Also, have I mentioned, it's the _pool scene _we're talking about! With the snipers and Moriarty and "is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me" and _oh sweet Jesus what if we actually get to see what Sebastian Moran looks like!_"

Emily just shook her head in disbelief - partially because Scottie did make a valid point of them being possibly screwed over no matter what course they took, but also because not even she expected him to remember the exact gun type in the quote. When she didn't appear to have anything to add on the topic, Scottie sighed in defeat. He continued to eat his sandwich in silence for another minute or so before a strange idea occurred to him. Scottie swallowed. "Hey, Em?"

"Oh dear. I'm only 'Em' when you're about to suggest something particularly reckless."

"What if we got there first? You know, before Sherlock sends out that text so that Moriarty won't have sent his guys after John and/or us yet, but also so that he can't stop us because we'll already be there."

Emily hesitated, looking at Scottie long and hard before responding. "I'm listening."

* * *

"Ouch!" Scottie hissed. "Stop elbowing me with your shoulder!"

"_Shhh!_" Emily hissed back. "Trying to fit the both of us into one of these tiny rooms was your dumb idea!"

"No, _I_ said we'd hide out in the changing rooms. _You're_ the one who squeezed in here with me."

"Well fine, if I'm not wanted here maybe I'll go find my own changing room!"

"Good! Do that!"

"Fine!"

"_Fine!_"

The two of them were crouching on top of a chair that they'd dragged into the little room so that no one who came in would see their feet under the wood panels, and a red curtain blocked their view of the Bristol South Swimming Pool. Emily had only started to shift when she heard a door being pushed open. Both teenagers froze, tensing up. After about a second the thing shut itself, which echoed throughout the near empty building, there were footsteps growing closer to where they were squished up next to each other and Emily checked her phone to see that it was exactly midnight. That must be Sherlock, then, which struck her as weird because neither of them recalled hearing John having been brought in. Emily started to lean forward, hoping to see if John's feet were visible in one of the stalls alongside theirs, but Scottie pulled her back.

Luckily for them Sherlock had yet to discover the teenagers' presence, as they heard him begin the scene as scheduled: "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance - all to distract me from _this._"

There was a long pause before a second pair of footsteps could be heard. They stopped again. "Evening," went John's voice. "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Scottie looked as if he were about to cry and it took all of his energy to keep from making a peep. To the untrained eye this may've looked like a gesture of fear, but Emily know all too well that her friend had gone into fangirling mode. She just hoped to God he didn't fuck everything up with it.

Sherlock's voice was quieter now. "John. What the hell...?"

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming." A couple more footsteps and then a pause. "What… would you like me… to make him say… next?" Moriarty's playing around with John like a puppet was so much harder to listen to in person. "Gottle o' geer… gottle o' geer… gottle o' geer…" John's voice almost broke in that moment, and Emily cupped her hand over her mouth to ensure her own silence.

"Stop it," demanded Sherlock.

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

"Who _are_ you?" Oh, God, he even _sounded_ more desperate just from being in the same room. And then a door at the other end of the pool could be heard opening. Scottie grabbed onto Emily's arm in anticipation, very nearly cutting off its circulation, but she said nothing.

"I gave you my number," Moriarty's creepy and yet unnervingly soothing voice rang out. "I thought you might call." They held their breaths as the man came closer. "Is that British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket… or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both."

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" Beat. "Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that _was_ rather the point. Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." Moriarty's voice came even closer the next time he spoke. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see… Like you!"

You could just about hear the sneering in Sherlock's voice. "Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so."

"Consulting criminal. Brilliant."

There was a strange mix of emotions bubbling up in Emily. None of the previous Sherlock experiences she was gifted with felt half as real or intense as this one. Not even when she and Scottie had first met Sherlock and John, or when they were being shot at or ran into Moriarty for the first time. She was somehow both unbelievably scared and happy at the exact same time. Emily glanced up at Scottie to see if his face, which could only be partially seen through thin strips of light that came in through the locker, conveyed a similar interpretation. Rather, the boy looked as if he were fighting back a sneeze.

"Isn't it? No one ever gets to me…" Moriarty went on, "and no one ever will."

_Don't you fucking dare,_ Emily mouthed.

There was the sound of Sherlock cocking his pistol. "_I_ did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Ah-_CHOO!_"

There was a very long silence. Scottie rubbed at the bottom of his nose. "Sorry," he whispered back. Mere moments later their curtain was pulled open. Scottie and Emily looked up, wide-eyed, to see none other than Moriarty standing across from them.

"Carry on like we were never here?" Scottie tried weakly.

A slight chuckle came from the man. "Well don't be shy now," he purred. "You made your bed. Now _lie in it._"

Moriarty backed up, giving the two of them room to step out from their hiding place uneasily. Now they could see Sherlock, who stared back at them with a horrified look about him. The gentleman seemed at a loss for words. John looked away with a mixed expression of fear, anger, and sympathy. They guessed he'd heard them earlier and knew they were there but, of course, said nothing to give them away. When no one else spoke, Moriarty slowly erupted into a fit of laughter.

Several more uneasy seconds ticked by and the consulting criminal calmed down, wiping a tear away from his eye. "Oh, this is just too good," he exhaled. "I can see why you like having them around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. I would've assumed you had these two on a much tighter leash." Two little red dots slowly shifted to where Scottie and Emily were standing. Scottie threw up a middle finger in the direction the laser sights were coming from, and Emily slapped his hand back down.

Sherlock lowered his gun somewhat. "Believe me when I say I didn't know about this. Please. They don't know anything. Leave them out of this."

"Oh dear. You aren't perhaps slipping, are you?" Moriarty chuckled to himself. "I have one of my own, you know. And unexpected addition to the family, if you will. Do you think that's a coincidence?"

"I don't know what you expect me to think," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Would you like to meet her?" Moriarty asked. He stepped to the side. "You can come out now, Willow dear. The other grown-ups are almost _dying_ to get to know you." The pool's side door opened slowly, and a girl of about Scottie and Emily's age took a couple steps inside but said nothing.

"Willow!" Emily gasped, taking a step forward.

"Don't," warned Scottie. He grabbed onto the edge of her sleeve just to be safe.

"Oh? So she _is_ a friend of yours? This just keeps getting better and better. Wouldn't you agree, Sherlock?"

"Take it," Sherlock said, attempting to change the topic by taking out the flashdrive and holding it into the air and then tossing it underhand to where Moriarty was standing.

Moriarty caught it effortlessly. "Huh? Oh! That! The missile plans! Boring!I could have gotten them anywhere." He tossed the thing into the pool, and there was a splash as it hit the water's surface.

"John can't launch himself at Moriarty," Scottie whispered urgently.

"Huh?" Emily shot back.

"We're standing in between the two of them. There's no way this can play out exactly the same now."

Emily took a deep breath. Scottie was right. But they were in too far now to try and put the show back on its original course. "Let her go," Emily demanded.

"_What the hell are you doing?_" Scottie hissed, pulling tighter on the girl's sleeve.

Moriarty blinked. "Pardon?"

"I said let her go," repeated Emily. "Willow's our friend, not one of your lackeys. She belongs with us, not… running around doing your _errands_."

"Your friend?" Moriarty mused. "If she was your friend, why do you think she would choose to spend her days with me? I don't normally enjoy the company of other people, but Willow here made quite the intern. Relaying messages, keeping tabs… She could be the one holding the sniper rifle right now. All I'd have to do is say 'please'. Is that the kind of friend you prefer to keep? One who will shoot you down at a simple command?" Willow looked away, avoiding the eyes of her fellow internet buddies.

"Shut up."

"Emily," Sherlock warned, slowly starting to lift his weapon again.

"I said shut _up,_ _both _of you! I know Willow, and she would never do any of that! She's a good person, and you're nothing but a murderous psychopath and a liar!"

"Oh, I don't _lie_, Princess. You ought to know that. But I do applaud your nerve, standing up to me and Daddy like that, I really do. It's only too bad he doesn't appreciate you for it."

"How do you mean?" Emily asked, her voice softer now.

"Well, isn't it obvious? Sherlock thinks you're worthless. They both do, really. Of course, you can never expect them to admit it, but that's men for you. Your little friend there… perhaps he's the only one here who truly cares. But then again, he's in the same boat as you are. Always getting in the way, slowing them down… Sherlock Holmes isn't your babysitter. He doesn't have time to play games with _children._"

"He played games for _you_," Scottie said under his breath.

"Stop it," Sherlock demanded, gun still fixed on the consulting criminal. "Don't listen to him, Emily. Don't move, don't talk, don't even breathe - that goes for the both of you."

"Ooh, and how does that feel, Princess?" Moriarty mocked. "Ordered around like Sherlock's _plaything_."

"You heard the man," Emily choked. "He said _stop it._"

Moriarty pulled his lips back into a crooked smile. "Make me," he taunted.

Without warning the girl suddenly leapt forward, ripping out of Scottie's grasp. "Emily!" several distressed voices called after her, but it was too late. Emily only just heard the sound of a gunshot before everything went black.


End file.
